Pushing Time
by Volchitza
Summary: What happens when time moves on. Dominating middle school was easy, so shouldn't high school be just as simple? There are bigger monsters in Rikkai than Yukimura, Sanada, and Yanagi. Disclaimer: I don't own PoT, and this applies to all the chapters in this fic.
1. Further In and On We Go

**Further In and On We Go**

…

"_Mummified my teenage dreams_

_No it's nothing wrong with me_

_The kids are all wrong, the story's all off_

_Heavy metal broke my, heart…"_

…

The birds were singing.

An absolute picture of perfection, Yukimura lifted one arm and slammed it down on the snooze button of the bird, quieting it for the next five minutes and giving himself a few more minutes of shut-eye. He nestled his head into the pillow, rubbing his cheek against the silky fabric and the rough texture of his hair, which was splayed out around his face in the splendor of a male peacock's tail—except it was blue, and shorter, and considerably less tame.

The birds started singing again, and this time Yukimura knew in the back of his head that he had to get up. His nose twitching lazily, he sat up in his bed, his eyes still reluctant to open and face the dawn light filtering through his window and patterning his skin. He forced them up, retreating like a vampire as they fought to adjust. He turned his head away from his window, scanning the familiar topography of his room. His gaze snagged on the Rikkai Dai uniform hanging on his closet door.

"Oh, yeah," Yukimura murmured. He was starting high school today. The excitement that had brewed inside of him for the previous couple of weeks climaxed in his gut and simmered down disappointingly. "I don't feel different," he mused, shrugging. It couldn't be helped, he supposed.

He pushed himself to the edge of his bed and touched his bare toes to the ground, padding softly into the bathroom. He went through his usual morning ritual of brushing his teeth, gurgling mouthwash, and spitting the blue liquid out in his sink. He stripped down and stepped into the shower, cranking on the water to drinking-water temperature and giving himself some time to go blank.

Yukimura wasn't one to worry himself with petty pleasures like the first day of school. Guillain Barré had really put life in perspective for Yukimura, and he had finally realized how short it really was. There certainly wasn't enough time to spend any of it stressing out. The old Yukimura probably would have woken up and thought something about dominating at Nationals. The new Yukimura also wants that, but now that his vision was less blinkered, he was also determined to catch up on all of life's hidden wonders when he still had the chance.

After a few minutes Yukimura raised his arms to his head and roughly massaged his hair, teasing out the tangles. A mist began to rise into the air—his cue to hurry up. He quickly rinsed his mouth with water and spit it onto the ground. He stepped out and wrapped himself in a towel, the mirror before him misted up now. He heard the annoying ring of his sister's alarm clock and quickly dried himself up, pulling on his white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants.

"Nii-san, hurry up," Sumiko called, rapping loudly three times in succession on the wooden door.

"Wait your turn, Koko," Yukimura teased softly—she hated being called that.

"But it's the first day of school, Nii-san," she whined admonishingly, leaning on the door. Today, his pet name for her didn't seem to generate much of a reaction. "I need to get ready."

"So do I," he replied.

There was a groan and stomping from the other side. Yukimura let out a small chuckle.

"But you're a boy, Nii-san. What could you possibly need to do?"

Yukimura opened the door a crack resignedly and slipped out, letting Sumiko dash in. "Fine, I get it. Take your time, Koko."

"Thanks," Sumiko muttered. She closed and locked the door behind her.

Yukimura laughed again and went into his room, unhooking his uniform from the closet door. He set it gently on his bed, admiring the material as it slid through his fingers, whispering as it moved against his skin.

It really wasn't all that different from the old middle school uniform, but there were certain details that stood out. Like how the shade of green on the blazer was just a shade darker than the middle school one and how the tie was striped differently—green-and-white instead of blue-and-white. There was also the addition of the white pin on his heart that declared Yukimura's first-year-ness, along with the black shoes instead of brown.

It seemed fitting to Yukimura that his surroundings would change since he had.

The bell rang once, and only once, which informed Yukimura that it was Sanada—because only he could keep himself from re-tugging the elegantly crafted chain that served as a bell. He was earlier than expected, considering that Yukimura had actually set his alarm clock thirty minutes earlier than needed to claim the bathroom before Sumiko, who always spent at least an hour going in and out of the bathroom to apply and reapply makeup. (Their parents could never understand their children and how they woke before seven.)

Smiling, Yukimura poked his head out the window and watched his friend shift uncomfortably on the doorstep, too much of a stiff to let himself in even though he knew where Yukimura kept the spare key.

"Just let yourself in, Genichirou. I'll be along in a minute," Yukimura called down, causing his head to snap up. Yukimura grinned at the surprise that had flashed across Sanada's face. "Don't let your guard down," Yukimura teased.

Sanada grumbled. He was already dressed in his uniform, which he filled well with his broad shoulders. If it wasn't for the white pin, he almost could have fooled a teacher into thinking he was a third-year. "Don't do that, Yukimura," he muttered, bending down and pulling away a loose chunk of red brick from the perimeter of Yukimura's garden. He slid the key from the small niche and replaced it.

Yukimura receded into his room and turned back to the uniform, slipping it over himself haphazardly. Sanada was waiting for him, so vanity would have to wait. He buttoned down the white dress shirt and shrugged on the green blazer. Tossing his tie over his shoulder, Yukimura toed into his black shoes and headed downstairs,

"Are you ready?" Sanada asked, standing up from the couch as Yukimura appeared.

"Yeah, let's go." Yukimura nodded, bending down to tie his shoes.

"Seiichi, are you going already?" his mom's voice called. She appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in an orange nightgown and still looking drowsy.

"Mm-hm."

Ryoko's blue eyes narrowed. "No, you aren't. Not like that Seiichi." With the superhuman speed of a nitpicky mother, she flew downstairs and slid the tie from Yukimura's shoulder, lightly whipping her son. She dragged him to his feet and looped the tie around his neck.

"It's not that bad," Yukimura murmured under his breath. He didn't say it out loud; his mother was scary even when she was being normal. It was one of the things he'd inherited from her.

"Hmm?" Ryoko asked, barely looking up as her nimble fingers did his tie and straightened the collar on his shirt. "What was that, Seiichi?"

"Nothing." Yukimura pulled back, stepping behind Sanada in an attempt to use his friend as a shield.

Unfortunately, it worked, and all of Sanada's imperfections were laid bare.

"Genichirou, shame on you," Ryoko scolded, stepping forward to fix an already-perfect tie. "Look, there's a piece of hair." She plucked a nonexistent strand of hair from his shoulder.

Sanada froze. His eyes slid to the side. Yukimura held back a snort, recognizing the signs. "Yukimura-san, can I have a lint roller?"

Ryoko beamed up at him. "See, Seiichi you should learn from Genichirou." She turned around and bustled into the laundry room, emerging a few seconds later with a lint roller.

"Thank you." Sanada took it in his fingers.

Yukimura fought back a roll of his eyes—this is what he got for introducing two micromanagers to each other. "C'mon, Genichirou, we should go meet up with Renji." He tugged lightly on Sanada's sleeve, twisting around to face the door. "Kaa-san, we're leav—"

She hugged him.

Yukimura froze as Ryoko buried her nose into his chin-length hair. After a brief moment of surprise, he wound his arms around her and patted her back comfortingly. "It's okay, Kaa-san," he soothed, like he'd always done for Sumiko when she used to need him to scare away the monsters.

Behind him, Sanada shifted his bag uncomfortably.

Then, Yukimura felt tears seep through his uniform. His eyes widened fractionally, but he just patted her back until she pulled away and held him at arm's length. Her eyes were moist and slightly red. "Are you okay, Kaa-san?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Ryoko muttered, looking down and laughing. She dropped her arms to her side and rubbed them on her nightgown. "It's just—my Seiichi's all grown up."

Yukimura smiled gently, slightly confused by this sudden show of affection. After all, it was just high school. Still, he pulled her into another hug. "I'll see you after school, Kaa-san." He drew back, kissing her gently on the cheek in the process.

Ryoko's eyes alighted on the newly acquired tearstains on his uniform. They narrowed. "Oh, now I've got your new uniform dirty. Silly me." She rubbed at the dark splotches on his shoulder. "They won't come out," she grunted, rubbing harder. "Hold on a second, Seiichi. I'll get a rag." She turned and ran into the kitchen.

Yukimura laughed at his mother's odd mood swings and nodded to Sanada. "We should go now. Or we won't be able to stop at Momoe's." His and Sanada's rising early plus the lack of tennis practice gave them time for an actual sit-down breakfast, a rare treat given their soon-to-be rigorous schedules.

Sanada bobbed his head.

"Kaa-san, we're going now," Yukimura called, already halfway out the door. He hooked a pre-packed backpack from the ground beside the door, dangling it by the strap.

Ryoko emerged with a towel in her hand. "What about breakfast?" she asked. "And your uniform?"

"It'll air dry, and Genichirou and I are stopping by Momoe's." Yukimura was now on the other side, peeking in through the crack he left.

She _tsked_. "Fine, go; leave your old mom here." She sat down at the table and flicked the rag at them. "I gonna give your lunch to your dad."

Yukimura shook his head. "I'll see you this afternoon, Kaa-san. I'll buy lunch at school."

He shut the door.

~x~

Momoe's, or Momoe's Super Ultra Delicious Ramen, was a renowned ramen spot downtown. They served ramen—and sushi, pizza, and just about any other food found in Japan, so it was a rather popular area. On Monday mornings, there was usually a discount meal for anyone who happened to stumble upon it—and few people did, save athletes and the early-bird tourist.

Yukimura and his friends were regulars to the place.

When he and Sanada entered, the place was already rather crowded, filled almost to the brim with early-morning runners, businessmen, and other students. Yanagi waved at them from their regular booth in the corner, a menu held in front of him even though he already had the whole thing memorized.

"Have you ordered yet?" Yukimura asked, sliding into the seat opposite him and setting his backpack at his feet. Sanada took his regular place beside Yanagi, scooting away when he turned and smiled.

"Good morning, Genichirou, Seiichi." He folded the menu in front of him. "I got you _saba shioyaki_ and Genichirou Okinawa udon."

Sanada coughed.

Yukimura cocked an eyebrow. "Udon? He hates that."

Yanagi nodded. "Affirmative, but my data states that he plans on disciplining himself by denying himself his favorite things and replacing them with his dislikes. Isn't that right, Genichirou?" He turned to Sanada with a small smile, daring him to deny what he'd said.

He merely nodded. "Thank you, Renji." He pulled his hat down over his eyes and turned away from the booth.

"Um…excuse me, sir," a girl said, stopping by with their food. "Could you please scoot inward?"

He looked up. "Yeah, sorry," he muttered, following the girl's instructions, which brought him closer to Yanagi.

"Thank you for the food," said Yukimura, smirking at Sanada while keeping his eyes on the girl.

The girl blushed. "It's no problem, sir."

Yukimura focused on her and smiled brightly. She turned red and scampered away.

"Seiichi, you are a sadist," Yanagi murmured.

Yukimura tilted his head innocently. "A sadist? Don't group me with Seigaku's Fuji-kun. Plus, look what you're doing to poor Genichirou. He's turning green."

Sanada peered up through his hat. His usually olive skin had turned just a shade on the green side as he fought to swallow his breakfast. Finally, he choked.

"I'm going soft," he muttered.

Yanagi laughed. "Shall I order something else, Genichirou?"

"No. Absolutely not, Renji," Sanada said in the tone he used on Akaya when the younger boy was being particularly troublesome.

"All right, all right." Yanagi dug into his own breakfast: _nakemono miso_, ordered especially to harass Sanada because it was his favorite.

Yukimura finished chewing and balanced his chopsticks along the diameter of the bowl. "So, are you guys excited for the first day of high school?"

"Quite so," Yanagi replied mildly. "I, personally, am looking forward to the day Genichirou blushes because of a girl."

Sanada made a guttural sound in the back of his throat. "You're screwed up, Renji. And there is nothing special about today; school is school." He sipped his soup and almost wretched.

Yukimura laughed musically. "But there is, Genichirou. It's high school, and three years later, we'll be moving on with our lives. This chapter of our lives is almost over."

And then Yukimura realized why his mother had cried that morning. Time wouldn't stop, not even for the Child of God.

"We'll be all grown up," he murmured, chuckling at how he hadn't realized it sooner.

Both Yanagi and Sanada were silent, sensing the change in their friend and probably guessing what he'd been thinking. They resumed eating in silence, because Sanada was making a heroic effort to preserve the moment and not choke.

"Then we just have to make the most of it," he broke out, staring ahead with a fierce fire raging in his eyes.

"Right," Yanagi agreed. "There is an eighty-nine percent chance that Rikkai will win Nationals again this year with us on the team."

"Yes, Rikkai's unstoppable Big Three," Yukimura said.

But he knew that whatever happened, he would always have Renji and Genichirou to depend on.

~x~

Marui leaned back against his arms and yawned loudly, squeezing tears to his eyes. "Man, I can't believe school's beginning again. And just when summer started."

Jackal rolled his eyes. "A week ago, you were complaining about the lack of things to do."

"But that was when we didn't have school!" Marui reasoned, digging into his pockets to pop a slice of gum into his mouth. He chewed then blew a bubble. "Now it's completely different. Early morning, tennis practices, fan girls." He shuddered.

"And here I thought you liked the attention," Jackal remarked dryly, thinking back to a few months before school had let out the year before and how Marui had been practically mobbed by fans.

"Like, my ass," Marui muttered.

Jackal cocked an eyebrow, a retort on the tip of his tongue.

"Shit, Bunta, I didn't know you felt that way." Niou approached, lazily chewing on gum as well. He looked different, older somehow. Maybe he had finally trimmed that rattail of his.

"Language, Niou-kun," Yagyuu reprimanded.

Marui shot Niou a glare. "I'd tell you where you can stick it, but I'm not sure you have one of those."

Niou popped his gum in a scarily Marui-like manner. "Jackal, I love you," he said, mimicking Marui's voice.

"Huh?" Jackal looked around and then realized that it was Niou. "Don't do that, Niou. It gives people the wrong idea."

"Yeah! Now they'll all think I'm gay!" Marui shouted angrily.

The people around them turned and eyed him warily. They were all Rikkai students.

"Nothing to see here people," Niou said loudly, in a way that suggested something quite the opposite. He waved them away, smirking. "We're just helping him deal with sexual-orientation issues."

They all turned away, but their ears remained perked.

"Niou-kun, don't say it so loudly," Yagyuu scolded, talking at the same volume. He had joined along in his own subtle, gentlemanly way.

"Fuck you guys," Marui muttered sourly. ("Why, Marui-kun, I was just trying to help.") "Guys, it isn't what you think!" he said to the obviously eavesdropping crowd. "I'm just being victimized here."

"Heh-heh, too late." Niou slapped his back good-naturedly, his eyes still bright with mischief. "But don't worry. They won't judge. Maybe."

"Yeah, we're all nice people," Jackal added. "I'm sure we can find you a club in the school or something."

"Not you too, Jackal!" Marui wailed. "My reputation is ruined—hey! Watch it kid!"

A kid had zoomed through them, his backpack bouncing behind him and knocking Marui into Jackal. He weaved through the crowd of students heading toward Rikkai high school, uncaring that he had just reinforced Marui's troubles.

"Wonder what he's rushing about for," Niou muttered.

~x~

"Sorry, gay kid!" Yasuo didn't bother to turn around as he called this back, dashing through the crowd. Sure, it was Marui Bunta, but he had his sights set on bigger fish.

He barreled on, gaining speed, as Rikkai's wall got closer, until he spread one leg out in front of him and stepped up onto the bike rack set conveniently under the brick wall. Another stride and he was on the wall and then flying down, landing with cat-like grace on hard-earned muscles. He planted his hands on the cement ground for barely a second, but long enough so it looked like a cool moment from a movie, and then continued his mad dash through the crowd.

It was the first day of school, and as always, stands from every useless club in the school were taking up the lawn, the chosen representatives from these clubs trying to gather kids. The sports teams had the biggest lines so far. Yasuo made his way to the one with _Boys' Tennis_ stitched into a red banner above it. He bulldozed into the last person in line and continued forward, until he was at the front.

"Hold on a sec, kid. You just cut through the whole line," the third-year manning the stand scolded, intercepting Yasuo's hand as he reached for the pen.

"If he's at the front, just let him sign up," another blond-haired third-year muttered, staring ahead with boredom glinting in his gaze. He had his feet propped up on the stand and his arms folded over his chest.

"Now, Koichi, if we let everyone cut, what do you think would happen?" the first boy asked, oblivious to his patronizing tone.

"They'd sort it out?" the second boy murmured.

The first boy sighed and spread his arms out. "But it's the principle of the thing, Koichi. It's not right."

"Kid, move," the person behind Yasuo demanded.

"Shush," Yasuo hissed, jamming his elbow into the boy's groin and causing him to double over. He looked at the two arguing third-years and inched his hand toward the pen.

"Don't even try it," the first boy warned in a low voice, spotting Yasuo's hand from the corner of his eye. He slammed his hand down on the pen.

"Damn it, Makoto, just let the kid sign up already. You're holding up the line." Koichi pressed his fingers to his temples in agitation.

Makoto looked up and realized that there was indeed a whole line of agitated teenage boys being forced to wait unnecessarily. "Fine, kid, but remember: nobody likes cuts." He pushed the pen at Yasuo with an amiable smile. "You're off the hook for now." He mussed up Yasuo's hair.

"Thank you, senpai," Yasuo muttered, bowing out of the way and taking the pencil to scrawl his name in Kanji on the sign-up sheet. He slipped a registration paper off of the top of the pile and quickly slid out of line.

With his "thunder" now officially ruined, Yasuo supposed that he could get some data on his fellow first-years. Around him, old friends and new acquaintances were greeting each other with bright smiles. Both of Yasuo's friends had moved away during the summer, leaving him by himself. Which was totally fine, but at times like these, it was terribly awkward to be a lone star among a group of people who just—belonged. He probably didn't stand out at all in reality, but in his head, he was like a sour thumb.

A light bulb appeared above his head.

"Hah-hah, get it!" someone shouted into his ear, slapping his backpack.

Yasuo ducked away and whirled to glare at the idiot. "Dude. What the hell?" he demanded. Who did that to a stranger? He hadn't even been having an idea.

…Wow, did that sound stupid or was it just him?

"Sorry," the boy said, holding out a hand. The first thought Yasuo had when he saw him: _Wow, is he really a boy?_ The second: _Why is his voice so low?_

"Um…" Yasuo stared at the hand; had he picked his nose with it? He certainly looked like the type. Yasuo weighed some numbers in his head and decided that there was roughly eighty percent chance likelihood of him being at least an ear-picker if not something worse. "No thanks," he said, pushing down the hand with an index finger.

He looked up, and the boy seemed be holding in snickers. Yasuo arched an eyebrow, and he burst out into wild laughs as he turned around and raced toward a group of other boys who were cracking up in the shade of a cherry blossom tree.

_The hell?_ Yasuo thought again, staring at them with a bemused expression.

"Hah-hah, the fuck d'you got on you, man?" someone shouted behind him.

Yasuo whirled around, his face still carrying his confusion. The person was gone. It had probably just been a bored upperclassmen looking for a first-year to tease. Yasuo hated people who made fun of other people for their own amusement. _The bastard,_ he thought venomously, clenching his hands at his sides.

"Um…excuse me." A finger tapped on Yasuo's shoulders. "You have something on your backpack."

Yasuo turned around. His eyes flew open wide; in front of him stood the Big Three—Yukimura Seiichi, Yanagi Renji, and Sanada Genichirou. Yukimura was the one who had tapped his shoulder, his slender fingers arched gracefully at his side now.

"Um…" Yasuo immediately cast his eyes downward. "Thanks, Yukimura-san." He reached behind him and tugged off a piece of paper, not bothering to look at the writing scrawled on it before he crumpled it up and stuffed it into his pocket. He plunged his hands after it and hunched his shoulders.

"Are you new here? I've never seen you around Rikkai," Yukimura observed.

Yasuo didn't look up as he smirked in satisfaction—_That's because I didn't want you to know about me._

Then: "He is Yuudai Yasuo, a first-year here, like us. He doesn't play any known sports, but his physique is comparable to some of our second-stringers back at the mid school, which suggests that he trains privately. He is of a gifted intelligence, his IQ ranging around 115 to 125. Grades range from high-eighties to mid-nineties. Body measurements are—"

Sanada coughed. "Enough, Renji."

Yanagi quieted.

_Damn._ Yasuo pursed his lips, but otherwise stayed silent. His fists clenched in his pockets; he itched to challenge them there and then. But—he had to wait, bide his time. "Wait for the opportune moment," according to Captain Jack Sparrow.

Yukimura laughed lightly. "I hope I see more of you this year, Yuudai-san." He patted Yasuo on the shoulder, acting like his touch was some great gift to Yasuo, and brushed past him to the front of the line tennis line.

As Yasuo walked away, he couldn't help but notice that Makoto hadn't said anything to them about "cuts."

~x~

"Hit it, dogface! C'mon, what're you? I've seen two-year-olds play better than that! That's pathetic!"

Kirihara barely looked up from his phone as a superfluous amount of insults took shape on his tongue and flooded from his mouth. He didn't care that there was nothing to be corrected or that everyone was doing everything right—somewhere, sometime, someone would mess up, and he would be prepared to shout at him for it. He continued texting on his phone, leaving all the technical stuff to his newly acquired assistant, Masanori.

The boy was a jumpy little specimen with a bird-like frame and wide bubble eyes that had almost scared the shit out of Kirihara when he'd first seen him, not that he'd ever admit that. And, believe it or not, the kid had actually _offered_ his services. No bullying needed. Well, actually, some bullying. Kirihara had found some second-year guys beating on the kid during school, and being the do-gooder he was (he'd actually just been looking for someone to beat up), he had helped the shrimp out. After that, Masanori hadn't let Kirihara out of his sight. And Kirihara was really rather proud—he bet that even Niou-senpai couldn't get a personal assistant on the first day of school as a _first-year_.

Another thing for him to be happy about. Even though all of his upperclassmen had left for high school, they were in _that_ hellhole at the bottom of the food chain, and here Kirihara was: sitting high on a throne of success and might as a third-year at the top. (Actually, he was sitting on a park bench amidst sweaty, terrible excuses for tennis players, but same dif.)

He got a text. It was from Yukimura.

His phone had been practically buzzing with texts from random strangers for the first hour or two of school. By lunch, the myriad had subsided. Now, only an occasional few from Kirihara's most trusted confidants (AKA: his _"posse"_) appeared regularly. He'd been cleaning out his inbox when the first text from Yukimura since the school year officially started appeared.

Kirihara opened it up. _Akaya, how's Sumiko?_

His eyes narrowed. _Who?_

_Sumiko, Akaya. Sumiko, my baby sister._

His eyes bugged out of their sockets. _YOU HAVE A SISTER!? WHEN THE FUCK DID THAT HAPPEN?_

Kirihara could practically hear the sigh from the other end. _I sent you ten texts about her last night, Akaya._

_Why would you do that?_ Kirihara typed back. He assumed his ex-captain would take a while to get his head around that, and switched back to his inbox.

There was a text from Yanagi-senpai. It read: _Language, Akaya_.

Kirihara wrote back, _You're such a stalker._ He then went back to his and Yukimura's chat.

_Akaya, I told you to keep an eye out for her at school._

_Really?_ Kirihara asked.

_Akaya, I don't have time for this, and neither do you, I must remind you. Just, in the future, watch out for Sumiko at school. She's the second-year with blue hair._

Kirihara snorted. He didn't have time to look after Yukimura's little sister. He had a social life of his own, people to bully, teachers to annoy, friends to grace with his company. Besides, she was just Yukimura 2.0, nothing important, certainly not as great as the original.

But—Kirihara hesitated—it _was_ Yukimura, Kirihara's former captain, and if he would put his pride aside to ask _Kirihara_ for a favor…Well, Kirihara could always demand some sort of payback. Kirihara entertained this new idea in his head, watching the tennis courts before him.

Why was Masanori playing human target instead of getting him water?

Kirihara's eyes widened and he stood up with a series of cuss words. "You little turd! I need water!" he roared.

"Sorry!" Masanori squealed, quickly scrambling away from his bullies.

Kirihara sat back down in satisfaction. Being captain felt good. He now understood why Sanada had been such a control freak—because it was so much fun. He supposed he could help Yukimura (he imagined the former captain kneeling in front of him and thanking him). After all, Kirihara was feeling generous today, and he was in a good mood.

Plus, had a _fuckin'_ personal assistant.

* * *

><p>AN: Yep, so this is basically my take on what'll happen when the regulars go into high school. Warning: there is a lot of OCs in this story, but I will definitely try to stay away from the Mary-Sue/Gary-Stu area. The only OCs that I go in depth with is the ones that will contribute to the story.

Without further ado, I hope you like this first chapter. I understand it was kind of weird, but please, just bear with me for a while. It should get better.

Disclaimer: Lyrics at the top are from _Centuries_ by Fall Out Boy, which I don't own.


	2. The Crumbs Are Gone and The Way is Lost

**The Crumbs Are Gone and The Way is Lost**

…

"_Further in and on we go_

_Sightless creatures tugging at our clothes_

_Cutting through the twilight, sword in hand_

_Strangers once united against the land…"_

…

"So, you guys ready for tennis?" Yukimura flicked his pencil idly against the table with one hand while the other held the back of a book up to his eyes to skim. He reached the last thought-provoking question in the synopsis and heaved out a sigh—good literature was so hard to find these days.

"What a clever conversation-starter," Renji replied dryly, neither deigning to look up nor to conceal the sarcasm in his tone.

Yukimura flitted his eyes to the immaculate ceiling above and he, Yanagi, and Sanada spent thirty seconds in silence, before: "D'you think the captain'll mind if I don't bring in my registration form today?"

Both Yanagi and Sanada glanced up from their individual tasks. They exchanged a look between each other, contemplative. "Depends," Yanagi said finally, choosing his words with unnecessary caution. "Would _you_ mind?"

"Well, maybe if it was from one of you guys," Yukimura said.

Sanada breathed out a puff of air and set his book down on the table; closed neatly and face-up on the table with a thin slice of paper marking his page. "Yukimura, you're acting like a forgetful first-year," he chided.

Yukimura laughed lightly. "Fitting, since I am a first-year and the stress of school has made me forgetful. You are perceptive as always, Genichirou."

"You know what I mean," Sanada said irately. "This is out of character for you, Yukimura."

Yukimura's fingers tapped against the spine of his book, raised to stand on the sides of its covers. He laughed, rolled his eyes. "Of course, Okaa-san, my bad. I'll get it out right now and you can sign it, m'kay?"

Sanada shook his head and thumbed to his original place in his book. It was an autobiography on some great Japanese political leader and looked rather dry to Yukimura, but then again Renji had recommended it. "Whatever," Yukimura heard him mutter into the fine, calligraphy pages and aloof diction.

Yukimura tried to catch Yanagi's eye, but the other boy had immersed himself in homework from one class or another. After a moment, he stood up, choosing to browse the shelves full of books. Genichirou was being a mother hen, he reasoned, smiling at the image of Sanada in a chicken costume.

Almost on instinct, his feet took him to the poetry section, the shelves filled with figurative fragments and whispers upon whispers of secrets. His fingers browsed the spines of books, dusting their textured identities, searching for his favorite author. He didn't notice the girl sitting on the floor in the middle of the pathway until it was too late, until his shoe had caught under her crossed legs and he was stumbling forward with arms out.

"Aw, shit," he heard crisply and quietly, like the crinkle of autumn leaves underfoot. _"Aw shit" is right,_ he thought as he caught himself with his other foot.

"I'm _so_ sorry," said the voice again, and Yukimura turned around, irritated (because, the hell? Why was this girl sitting in the middle of a walkway?), but he instructed himself to shake it off.

"It's fine," he told her, smiling thinly.

She shook her head, and Yukimura noticed absently that one side of her hair was shorter than the other—and not in an _aren't I so cool and gangsta?_ way, but more like _I just woke up and found out my parents decided to give my siblings scissors._ "No, really, I'm shouldn't have been sitting there, right in the middle of the aisle. I mean, that's why there're chairs—so stuff like this"—she motioned between the two of them, and Yukimura caught an impression of the picture on the book she'd been reading—"doesn't happen."

"It's fine." He gestured at the cover of her book. "The poet is very talented."

"This old thing?" The book, which she held up, was worn and tattered at the edges, dog-ears galore visible from the side. There was fondness in her gaze, but one eyebrow was arched dubiously and her voice indicated the opposite.

Yukimura found himself shrugging and offering a slight smile. He turned away and began to browse the selection before him. A hand flashed before him, wrist with a silver charm bracelet dangling loosely, and displaced a book from the shelves before him. "This one's really good, too," said the girl.

Yukimura pulled it off the shelf. It was a new edition for the library, shiny and surrounded by that new-book smell. He looked up at the girl with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't usually bump into people with a taste for poetry." She shrugged, toeing the floor.

"I could say the same."

The girl smiled and held out her hand. "I'm Naoko Tsukumu, then. Might as well know my name since I already know yours, Yukimura-san."

Yukimura took her hand and clasped it. There was amusement in his gaze at the formal introduction. "Nice to meet you, Naoko-san."

"Same." Naoko's smile was warm and grounding. She relinquished his hand. "I'll see you around." Her wrist wagged from side to side in a friendly goodbye as she brushed past him.

Yukimura merely nodded an acknowledgement before turning his gaze to the book she'd recommended. He took a moment to flip through it, and when he returned to the library lobby, Naoko Tsukumu was gone.

"Interesting?" Renji said, eyes flashing briefly to the book in Yukimura's hand as Yukimura sat down beside him.

"Who knows?" Yukimura said, flipping to the first page and beginning to read.

~x~

"Good, go ahead," Makoto said dismissively, waving his hand airily at the first-year. He turned to his vice-captain, Koichi, and continued. "Anyways, this is a new year. I expect we'll have a healthier relationship now that we're both third-years and captains."

Koichi rolled his eyes and continued texting on his phone. "Uh-huh, yeah, all right," he grunted.

Not much of a reply, but Makoto had come to expect this out of Koichi. He nodded, satisfied, and started along a new vein. "So, did you hear about the new first-years? The ex-captain is really good, and apparently very scary."

"Yeah, Yukimura Seiichi," Koichi acknowledged.

"I trust you'll remain impartial."

He looked up with a coolly arched eyebrow.

Makoto laughed. "Yeah, I know, just—you know what I mean. You can never be too cautious."

"Mm-hmm," Koichi mumbled dubiously, returning to his phone.

Makoto smiled and turned back to the line of first-years. The boy from before was at the front. "Hey, kid, you didn't cut again, did you?" said Makoto, putting a hand out to stop him before he could slip past.

Yasuo shot him a freezing glare, tempering it by casting his eyes downward. "No, senpai," he said, pushing in a protruding edge on the stack of registration forms.

Makoto nodded and let him pass, turning to the next boy. Even though it was only the second day of school and many other students would probably be at home or hanging out with friends, the boys and girls of Rikkai were busy with the first day of club activities. Rikkai was, after all, a school known for its many successful clubs (arts, academia, athletics). Starting any later would be "completely bogus," according to their club adviser.

Makoto's eyes lit up with interest as Yukimura, Sanada, and Yanagi approached. Sanada and Yanagi gave him their registration forms. The two exchanged a few hushed words with Yukimura before they went ahead, while Yukimura hung back with a sheepish smile.

"I apologize, but I'm afraid I forgot to get my form signed," he admitted, shrugging.

Makoto blinked. This was the boy he'd heard so many rumors about, some reasonable and others not but all with the same embedded truth. This was the boy whose tennis was so fearsome that he could strip his opponents of their five senses. This was the boy who had forgotten his registration form like a naïve, blundering kid. Makoto tried not to be disappointed.

"Um…of course, Yukimura-san. Just get it signed tomorrow, okay?" He smiled.

"Thanks, senpai." Yukimura bowed and raced to catch up with his friends.

~x~

"That was Yukimura Seiichi, wasn't it?" asked Koichi in a tone that was just as disbelieving as Makoto felt.

He nodded, and then perked up. "Well, I suppose school's been stressful." He shrugged.

"Mm-hmm," Koichi hummed again. "That Yukimura better be as good as people say."

Makoto nodded, thinking about the young boy he had seen last year. He had to believe that Yukimura wouldn't be a disappointment like their old captain.

"So he's a bit forgetful. He won't disappoint."

~x~

"All right, kids, I'm Makoto Nobuo, your captain. Since it's the first day of practice, we're gonna watch a video and then get on with club rules. 'Kay?"

Yasuo bobbed his head along with the rest of the first-years, though he couldn't muster up enough will in him to care. Makoto had a plain persona. His black hair sprouted from his head, then drooped down like a wilted flower. His smile was friendly and subdued, as was his posture and his voice, which lacked the controlling edge that captains should have, in Yasuo's opinion. Already, he could see that this dime-a-dozen boy was only shown respect because of his title and rank.

He craned his head up to watch as Makoto pressed a few buttons on the TV and a video began playing. It portrayed dozens of boys, evenly spaced, practicing swings on a tennis court, with a voiceover from Makoto in the background. The camera panned over the sea of black-and-yellow (the same garish colors, Yasuo thought with a sigh) then switched to one of the matches Yasuo had seen last year at Nationals, cutting away the moment Rikkai scored the winning point. Again, snippets of normal practice appeared on the screen, with Koichi, this time, talking in a rough baritone in the background about what was expected of team members: integrity, commitment, hard-working, perseverance. _You forgot skill,_ Yasuo thought dryly.

The video ended. Slowly, the first-years around him began chatting amongst each other and stretching their necks from craning for so long. Yasuo tilted his head from right to left, groaning as he heard cracks from his neck.

"Quiet down, people," Makoto instructed. "As you can see, here in Rikkai, we take tennis very seriously. That's why we had you guys sign that oath in the registration form. So, we'll just go over some rules and then, if we still have time, we'll let you guys play some matches.

"First things first: no cheating during matches. This is a big one, and I know you guys are probably like, 'Well, no shit'; however, this is extremely important. Back at the middle school, I've heard that things worked differently, but you're in high school now. You guys are growing up, and getting into a habit of manipulation to achieve goals is not a good idea in life."

To Yasuo, the words sounded rehearsed, like a tape recorder replaying what needed to be said every year. He looked at the vice-captain, the blond-haired boy, and traced his steely gaze to Yukimura, who was staring back placidly, his smooth expression unwavering despite the implied insult.

"Second," Makoto continued, "we will not tolerate any tricks that damage our property or threaten the club's position. The school sets aside money for this club, but we have a limit. So, the more you break, the less you have.

"Third, respect your elders. Even if they aren't regulars or if you're better than them, it is only proper of you to respect upperclassmen."

_Apparently your VC doesn't think so,_ Yasuo thought, catching how Koichi rolled his eyes.

"Now, this doesn't cover even half of it, but the rules are flexible. Nothing is set in stone, which means, to those of you who think that I'm allowing you guys to play pranks, that I can issue a punishment even if 'technically' you guys didn't do anything wrong.

"I'll hand things over to my vice-captain, Koichi Masayoshi, now," said Makoto, stepping back as Koichi stepped forward. "He'll explain the rest."

Yasuo felt the aura change around him as Koichi stepped forward. He was the exact opposite of Makoto, it seemed. His face was angular and sharp, while Makoto's was all soft lines; his mouth set into a thin line, while Makoto's were constantly smiling. He stood with a sense of carelessness; his back slumped slightly, with his weight more or less left to his left leg to handle. His hands were tucked into his pockets as he scanned the crowd lazily yet with eyes that immediately gave Yasuo the sense he missed nothing. Yasuo had to fight the urge to straighten up and hide his shortcomings in front of this man.

_Why isn't he the captain?_ he thought.

"Hey. So, you like tennis?" Koichi began in a monotone, not so much a question as a statement of fact. "I expect most of you joined because you expected to automatically be allowed to participate in tournaments. Wrong. There are requirements. First, you have to attend at least three practices out of five a week. Unless practice is canceled, we should have practices every afternoon on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Those are from when school lets out to when we say you can leave. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, we'll have morning practices; they start from six-thirty to when school starts.

"Second, you have to be _good_ at tennis, and resilient. If you were to become a regular, meaning tournaments and fans, the practices will increase along with your training menus, which will be provided. Believe me, it's tough. But most of you don't need to worry about that, 'cause we won't be sorting out the good from the bad until next week."

Yasuo swore he saw Koichi looked at the Big Three from middle school. He smirked—_You're looking in the wrong place_.

"So, all in all, we run a pretty simple team here. Get here on time, do what you have to do, get out. You'll all be getting lockers today. Your practice gear will go in there. And, last but not least: Welcome to Rikkai Dai."

Koichi backed up, letting Makoto take over again. He'd said the whole speech in a lazy drawl.

Makoto laughed a stage-chuckle—fake, plastic, designed to relieve the tension left in the air after Koichi finished his speech. Two second-years flanked him this time, both grinning like idiots. "Okay, so, half the room follows Nagiri. The other half will follow Fukawa, and we'll get you lockers."

The first-years began to get up around Yasuo. He looked around and pushed himself up as well. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Yukimura, Sanada, and Yanagi going towards Nagiri, and even though he was supposed to go with Fukawa, he followed, surreptitiously slipping into the black-haired boy's group. He looked at Fukawa's group and could see that it was considerably smaller, but nobody seemed to care.

"Oh, and remember rule three," Makoto called.

Yasuo nodded and sidled up behind the trio, just bordering the bubble that they seemed to have drawn around them with their aura.

"So, you brats like tennis, huh?" Nagiri said, while he clapped his hands together and rubbed them together with a hungry look in his eyes. "Good for you. Tennis is a great sport. Anyways, I'm gonna call out a name and a number. Said person will come up here and I'll give them their locker combo. After that, you'll go to the locker rooms"—he leaned to the side to show them a building—"and find the locker with that number. There should be a lock inside. You should know what to do next. After we're all set, we'll go the courts and rally a bit, 'kay? I assumed you guys all have tennis racquets."

Apparently, this was supposed to be funny. Yasuo wrinkled his nose as nervous laughter erupted in short bursts around him.

The first name Nagiri called was that of a geeky young boy, too young for high school, probably someone who'd skipped a grade. He immediately scampered up and went about what needed to be done.

Yasuo's name was nearly last; he didn't need to worry about getting called soon. He let himself look around as boy after boy was called, being careful not to look too curious. The first of the Big Three called was Sanada—Yukimura and Yanagi would come later as would Yuudai. Yasuo thought of approaching them. After all, it appeared that they _did_ know about him—or at least Yanagi did—so remaining incognito any longer would be useless.

"So, you guys excited?" he asked.

Both Yukimura and Yanagi turned to him in the middle of their conversation, regarding him as they would one below them.

"I think we met yesterday—Yuudai Yasuo." Yasuo held out a hand, smiling.

Slowly, Yukimura's lips pulled up pleasantly. "Yes, I remember. So, you _do_ play a sport, Yuudai-san. You're gonna have to change your data, Renji."

"Yes, it appears so," Yanagi murmured calculatingly.

Yasuo's gaze flickered to his perpetually closed eyes and he could _feel_ the other boy analyzing him, drawing conclusions, making predictions. Yasuo smirked—well he was doing the same.

"I decided going stag this year was no fun." Yasuo shrugged and flicked his T-shirt. "So, you guys are the infamous Big Three, huh?"

"Two-thirds, yes," Yanagi said. Yasuo opened his mouth, but he continued with, "And before you say anything, Yuudai-san, yes, we hope to see you around, too."

Yasuo snapped his mouth shut, refusing to acknowledge that he had stolen the words right out from his mouth. He melded his features into another smile. "You _are_ as good at data as they say," he pretended to marvel.

"But you already know that."

He was beginning to regret approaching these two. Yasuo fought to keep his eyes from flicking about frantically. "Um…well, I suppose so, but—"

"But you just needed something to say, right?"

Again, he was left gaping like a fish out of water. "Well, I wasn't about to say that, but—"

Again, Yanagi cut him off. "But you were thinking it."

Open. Close. Open…Damn.

Then, Yukimura laughed. Yasuo felt his muscles relax, like the musical peels coming from his mouth had been some sort stress-reliever. "Renji, enough. You're scaring him," he chuckled.

"It's okay, Yukimura-senpai," Yasuo assured.

He bit his tongue.

The two were now looking at him with that air of amusement that wasn't quite hidden, but wasn't out in the open either.

"I mean, Yukimura-san," he corrected, but the damage was already done.

They still looked at him.

"Um…I'll just go now," Yasuo said, receding to his original spot behind them.

They started talking again after he left.

"You didn't have to be so hard on him."

"I suppose not, Seiichi, but he was annoying me."

"How so?"

"He should just come out and say it: he wants to challenge one of us."

~x~

Niou slipped his hands into his pockets and proceeded forward as Fukawa called his name and announced a number, 169. He liked that number; for one, it was a perfect square, for two (did people say that?), it was the square of "unlucky number" thirteen.

Fukawa leaned in as he went up and met his eyes. "Kid, I know your reputation—"

"I didn't know I was this famous," Niou cut him off, grinning lazily and quickly finding his combination on his clipboard. "Thank you, Fukawa-_senpai_."

The upperclassman hissed in annoyance, and Niou heard him mutter, "Whatever. He doesn't need a locker."

As Niou entered the locker room, he scanned the area, catching sight of every security camera and planning every possible prank that could be pulled in this area. He stuffed his tennis shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt into his locker, and snapped the lock shut around it.

"Dude, you didn't need to piss him off like that," Jackal said when he got out.

"You're wasting your breath, Jackal," Marui told him, rolling his eyes. "He's just like that. It's his way of crying out for attention."

Niou pinned him with a glare. "I was going to say that that was the smartest thing you've said since forever, but now I take it back."

Marui puffed up. "I have said many a smart things since birth. When my mother gave birth to me, the doctor said that I was a one-in-a-million child."

Niou snorted. "Yeah. Only one child out of a million others is born naturally stupid."

"Niou, seriously? C'mon, we all know he can't win. Cut 'im some slack," Jackal intervened.

Marui nodded and clapped Jackal on the back. "Yeah, thanks, man—wait!" His eyes widened and the bubble he'd just blown popped. "Jackal, the betrayal!"

Rolling his eyes, Jackal struck up a conversation with Niou, ignoring Marui who was pointedly ignoring them. "So, anything new?"

"Nah, same old, same old," Niou replied. His eyes slid mischievously to Marui, who was loosely smacking his gum. Before Jackal could suspect anything, he returned their focus to him and added, "You?"

A shrug. "My parents want me to get a wig."

Marui, Niou could see, was now trying very hard not to rejoin the conversation. His chance was waning.

"Seriously? Man, that sucks," he said, scooting over towards Marui until they were back to back.

Jackal narrowed his eyes. "Niou, you—"

But it was too late.

Perfectly timed to the smack of gum, Niou pretended to trip over his nonexistent shoelaces and ran into Marui's back with a _thump_. The gum that he'd been smacking flew out of his mouth and, as an added bonus that Niou hadn't even thought of, into the back of another first-year.

"Aw, dude! Not cool," the boy exclaimed, turning around with his nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Niou, I told you not to," Jackal said helplessly.

"You know you think it's funny," Niou said dismissively.

The stricken Marui was now trying very hard to explain to the first-year that it wasn't his green apple gum that had landed on his back and that this stupid trickster was the reason behind it, and that—gah!

"Whatever," the first-year dismissed. "I don't care whose fault it was. I am _so_ gonna burn this shirt later."

Marui bristled. "I'll have you know that many girls would kill for—"

"Yeah, whatever," the boy said again. "Just, don't come near me again."

Marui stood there, stunned, and tried to ignore the glances of other first-years. "You!" he growled, whirling on Niou.

Holding in snickers, Niou backed away with his hands held up innocently. "Bunta, we all knew that you couldn't hold in words, but wow, since when were you unable to hold in food, too? Life's been tough on you, man." He dared to pat him on the back.

Marui fumed. "Dude, the only reason keeping me from downright _murdering_ you is the fact the Yukimura'd murder me if I did."

Jackal, having gotten over his amusement enough to mediate, moved forward and patted his shoulder. "Cool down, Bunta."

He shook him off. "No, don't tell me to 'cool down.' You try being tricked over and over again."

"Nobody but you is stupid enough to fall for the same simple things," Niou pointed out.

"Shut up, Niou," Marui steamed, stomping the other side of the line of people.

Jackal turned to him accusingly. "He's really mad."

Niou shrugged and pulled out the gum he'd snagged from Marui's pocket when he had bumped into him, offering a piece to Jackal who didn't feel bad enough to reject it. He popped another piece into his mouth and chewed until flavor erupted in his mouth in a symphony of green apple. "He'll get over it. He always does."

Jackal considered that, then shrugged, blowing a teeny, tiny bubble. "True."

Niou wrapped the gum around his tongue and blew air into it, the gum bloating up until it popped over his mouth. He licked it off and smirked. "Now _that's_ how you blow a bubble."

~x~

"Hey, Kirihara-kun, you ever eaten a beetle before?" Daisuke asked.

It was after tennis practice was over. Kirihara had finally gotten together with his old friend, Daisuke, and they were walking rather slowly to the bus together. After a whole hour and a half of acting serious and captain-like around equally annoying first-, second-, and third-years, Kirihara was ready to hang out with someone he really liked.

Kirihara made a face, wondering when his elementary school best friend had started calling him "Kirihara-kun." "The hell?" A pause, then: "Have you?"

Daisuke snorted. _"No."_ He whipped his head around, smacking Kirihara with his long hair.

"Egh." Kirihara grimaced, spitting the strands of raven out of his mouth. Oh, now he remembered: when Daisuke had joined the drama club and become a total drama king. "God, you don't have to be like that. You asked the question in the first place."

There was no reply, and Kirihara thought that Daisuke might actually be mad, but then he turned around with his eyes folded into happy crescents and his fingers posing as bunny-ears beside his face. "Just kidding. I fooled you, huh?"

"You've gone crazy since I last talked to you," Kirihara deadpanned.

Daisuke chuckled and slugged Kirihara's bicep. "Man, you have no idea."

Kirihara made to roll his eyes, but stopped mid-roll as he spotted a figure that looked remotely like Yukimura. He frowned, and then he brightened up at the thought that his old captain was visiting him. "Bu—_mph_!"

Daisuke had clamped a hand over Kirihara's mouth, closing his fingers over Kirihara's nose and cutting off air. Kirihara thumped his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs and the strength from his muscles, and gasped for breath as his mouth was released.

"Dude, what was that for?" Daisuke heaved.

"You were trying to fucking kill me," Kirihara said, peering up through his mess of hair at the blue-haired person. He could see now that the person was wearing a girls' uniform and was, in fact, a girl.

"I was trying to stop you from embarrassing yourself."

Kirihara fought back a blush and tried to look indignant. "What d'you mean?"

Daisuke straightened up, thumping his back a few times. "_I mean_, that's Yukimura Sumiko, not Yukimura Seiichi." Kirihara looked at him, bewildered, and he smirked. "What? Did you think I wouldn't guess what you were thinking when you started to say 'buchou'?"

Kirihara sniffed, walking faster. Where had the kickass partner in crime gone and why was this prick replacing him? "I wasn't going to call her 'buchou.' I was gonna say 'buchou's little sister,'" he lied, and he might've felt bad about doing it to the old Daisuke, but this new one was just plain annoying.

"And why would you do that?" said Daisuke, not quite believing Kirihara.

"'Mura-buchou asked me to look after her," Kirihara declared proudly.

"Seriously? Why would he trust you?"

Kirihara glared at the superior tone that had been affected. "Maybe because I'm the only former regular on the team that's still in middle school."

Daisuke stroked his chin even though it was completely bald. Like a baby's butt, Kirihara thought. "What about the student council people?"

"Why do you care?" Kirihara demanded.

Daisuke shrugged. "Just making sure you didn't lie."

Kirihara snorted and pulled out his phone, deciding that his "awesome" new old friend was not worth his time or attention. He typed out a message to Yukimura stating that his sister was okay and waited for a reply. Better than waiting for the old Daisuke to return.

"Hey, you listening?"

Kirihara rolled his eyes. Drawled, "Yeah, definitely."

"Y'know, you're being a dick."

"_I'm_ being a dick?" Kirihara asked disbelievingly.

"Yeah. You're being all 'I'm better than everyone else' and stuff," Daisuke elaborated.

Kirihara rolled his eyes again. "Whatever, _'Suke_."

"Dude, see ya. Hope I don't see you around."

Kirihara didn't stop walking or look up until his old-friend-turned-prick disappeared on the bus ahead.

…The bus that was supposed to take him downtown.

His head shot up and he ran a few steps forward, knowing that he was already too late. He sighed—there went his schedule. Whatever. That schedule had been bat shit anyway.

Daisuke wouldn't be back, he knew. However, he figured that that wouldn't be a problem; he had tons of other friends. The real problem was that his means of relieving the growling pain his stomach had just driven off with his (since a second ago) best friend.

_If I'm so great, why doesn't one of my friends have a car? In fact, why don't _I_ have a car?_

He sighed and took off home at a slow jog, determined to get home before dinner grew cold.

* * *

><p>AN: Second chapter! For those of you who know me, updating within a month is pretty rare, so I'm proud.

As always, thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: Lyrics at the top are from _Rangers_ by A Fine Frenzy, which I don't own.


	3. Running Races Like Mice in Cages

A/N: I know, I know, I suck. I'm sorry. It's been so long since my last update, calculating the months it's been makes me wish I were blind. I wish I had a good excuse. If I told you I was going through that phase where you basically think everything you write is crap, would I be forgiven? Or does that not exist? Am I just being lazy? Well, anyway, sorry. I suck. I know. I'll try harder, I promise.

* * *

><p><strong>We're Running Races Like Mice in Cages<strong>

…

"_Getting nowhere but I'm trying_

_Forging ahead but I'm stuck in the bed_

_That I made, so I'm lying_

_But if you keep real close…"_

…

There was two percent of Japanese history class left when Yukimura Sumiko began packing up her notes. She had spent the last ten minutes shading her paper along the jutting shadows outlined by the sunlight, and doodling anime characters in the shaded margins. Her hand ached from gripping her pencil. She flexed each finger against the wooden table, forcing them back until the pain became distracting.

The morning had reeked with trouble, from the moment Sumiko had gotten up to when she had arrived at school. Her brother had woken up early again and hogged all the warm water. Then she realized she had misplaced her blow dryer. Her brush's spines had been struggling to stay in place during their battle against her post-sleep tangles, her staircase came up way too suddenly, and she felt certain falling down the stairs and hitting her head against the handle of her brush had cost her a few brain cells. And she wouldn't even get _started_ on what had happened after breakfast.

She sighed, rubbing absently at the faintly red oval on her forehead. Her mother had tried to drag her by the doctor's office for a check-up, but Sumiko had declined. She had gone relatively unnoticed during her middle school years when her brother still ruled the school, but now that Yukimura had moved on, gossip centered on the second, less-interesting Yukimura had become a new hobby among the general student body. And, vain as it was, Sumiko didn't want to miss out on any new gossip. Who knew how much she could miss in a day?

The clock read _12:01 AM_. A pair of boys had pulled out the batteries long ago, freezing time at twelve-oh-one forever, because for some reason, nobody bothered to replace its batteries or buy a new one. Sumiko wished she had remembered to put wristwatch on her birthday list—she had planned on getting one, but it was never high enough a priority for her to remember. On days like Wednesday, though, when Taroshi-sensei of the Broken Clock was being particularly boring, Sumiko found the simple request inching higher and higher on her list of things to buy.

Sumiko skimmed over the yawning students, spotting Chikamatsu Arisa from across the classroom. Her friend checked her lime green wristwatch, a present from her older sister, and held up seven fingers. She mouthed at Sumiko, _Seven seconds_.

Sumiko mouthed back, _Yay!_ She could already smell her lunch inside the backpack by her side, leftovers from last night: homemade sushi, rice, and octopus tentacles. Some people preferred exotic meats and noodles, soups with strange and foreign spices, but give her a platter of her mom's sushi spiced with wasabi and Sumiko went to heaven.

She imagined the clock on Arisa's wrist and the broken one above Taroshi counting down the beats in unison. The bell rang on beat two, sending Sumiko shooting from her seat a millisecond after the first melodious chime.

Taroshi glared at her pointedly, annoyed at being interrupted mid-lecture. She could feel his disapproval of her example for the class, of her being unlike her brother, who would _never_ have acted so disgracefully.

She thought, _Just stop _doing_ that. Stop expecting me to act like the carbon copy of my brother. It's not gonna happen. Just because we're both Yukimuras doesn't mean that all Yukimuras are saints or something._

Sumiko huffed. Everyone in the school knew how awesome Seiichi was, how flawlessly _perfect_ he was. Well, he wasn't perfect, she often wanted to say, to shout. Just because he was pretty and awesome and nice and had good grades, even though he spent most of his time on tennis, didn't make him perfect or inhuman or of a higher existence, like that stupid nickname suggested.

But she couldn't expect complete strangers to understand. Other than close family, the only people Sumiko suspected knew Seiichi, not Yukimura or the Child of God, were Yanagi-san and Sanada-san, and Sumiko considered them twice removed cousins.

With carefully spaced steps, each two-and-a-half tiles apart, Chikamatsu Arisa's footsteps fell into a broken melody with Sumiko's, which pulsated like a heartbeat. Chikamatsu recognized the puckered lips and pouted cheeks as Sumiko's expression when she felt dissatisfied with the rest of the world for not understanding that being gifted didn't mean the same as perfection. She didn't understand this, perhaps never would, but she acknowledged it and was careful not to mention Yukimura Seiichi around Sumiko. Yukimura's little sister happened to be extremely volatile when annoyed.

The two girls with their jarred steps made their way outside among the cherry blossom trees, chattering people, and blue sky. A scent of fresh air blew past them, touched their skin and hair gently, like a mother would her child. The sun remained un-obscured by clouds, a certain hallmark of a day perfect for eating outside, perfect for sports, perfect for anything but rain. The air breathed little around them, as though it knew that Sumiko was having a bad day and did not want to add wind-ruined hair to her list. The parched spring this year had not deterred the school from replacing the yellowed shoots from last year with earthy green grass masquerading as veterans of a difficult winter.

Sumiko headed to her and Arisa's usual spot, deep in thought. She went in between two third-year girls, who ignored her. Arisa swerved around them a little more tactfully and caught up to Sumiko.

"That was rude," she commented.

Sumiko snorted. "Like you care if I'm rude. What are you? My mother?"

Arisa nearly started a teasing remark, something along the lines of "I'd never give birth to a horror like you," but the two girls from before had returned and one of them said, "Hey, aren't you Yukimura-san's little sister?"

Arisa closed her mouth and winced.

Sumiko nodded, smiling like she'd just eaten a lemon. "The one and only. How can I help you, senpai-tachi?"

The first girl curled up her blood red lips whilst employing a simple yet elegant hair-toss that made her inky hair ripple. She made the modern school uniform look like a traditional Japanese kimono.

"I'm Shiori Yuki," she said.

"Sumiko."

"Chikamatsu Arisa."

"I'm Ando Nene," the first girl's friend said. She looked at least a head shorter than Shiori and barely reached Arisa's forehead. Compared to Shiori's traditional get-up, Ando looked like she had flown to Paris that morning with intricately braided hair, meticulously done makeup, and minuscule sequins stapled along the edge of her uniform. She seemed more like a wealthy socialite than a junior high student.

Shiori grinned and clasped her hands together. "Well, seems like we all know each other. Sumiko-san, Arisa—

"Chikamatsu, please," Arisa said quickly.

Shiori blinked. "Right," she agreed brightly. "I apologize. Would you two like to eat lunch with us, Yukimura-chan and Chikamatsu-chan?"

_What's the catch?_ Sumiko wanted to prod. The problem with having a famous older brother—besides all the obvious ones—was how she could never tell if someone wanted to be friends with her for her or for Seiichi. But she had been deciphering truth from lie for so long experience was on her side.

And suddenly Sumiko felt furious at her brother for being so damn perfect; resentful at her parents for expecting her to just _follow_ in his footsteps; livid at Taroshi-sensei for always comparing her to her brother. And always, always at her brother, because he had burdened her, his little sister, with this giant shadow of his without a thought. Didn't he understand how hard it was for her? She couldn't even see a fucking smile without reading into it or wondering whether the person smiling was genuine or not.

Sumiko looked at Shiori's smile and clenched her jaw, smiling back. _I don't need you to make a friend, Nii-san,_ she thought spitefully. She tilted her head pleasantly. Said sweetly, "Sure."

And Yukimura Sumiko's vision was just clouded enough to ignore the astonished glance of Chikamatsu and the delight of Shiori and Ando.

~x~

Surprise wasn't the word specifically used to define Yanagi Renji. And this still applied when his class voted him student council class representative. He _had_, though, expected a less partial vote on his behalf. His data accurately stated that majority would rule in his favor by at least seventy percent of the class. Still, ninety percent was a bit of an overkill, wasn't it? Well, he supposed it was a good thing that his fellow first-years trusted him so much with their classroom affairs.

Yanagi straightened the cuff links on his shirt, trying to stifle the lone butterfly fluttering around in his stomach. He was usually never late to meetings, especially first meetings, but today had been inevitable with the shoving around in the hallways. As always, there was that ninety-nine percent likelihood students would be more rambunctious during the first and last weeks of school than the middle period, which would usually come sometime around the second month of school.

He calmed his nerves and that little, irrational butterfly and opened the door.

A subdued sea of autumn red covered the floor of the spacious room inside, the décor looking custom made for the room. The table was a beautiful affair, the light brown wood curving in ornate arcs and forming an oval. The carpeted walls complemented the red-and-brown hues of the room, and the twin windows filtered in springtime sunlight, casting dust particles into focus.

The third-year student council president sat at the head of the room, with her shoulders pushed back and her spine straight with attentiveness. The vice-president when his sister had been in power, Yanagi knew Komura Shinobu well.

Even as Yanagi thought this, Komura looked up and fixed him with dark eyes, frozen in place by her contacts. She smiled. Said, "Hah," as though to prove a point, and gestured at him to the two girls at her side, one sharp-faced and a second-year on her left and the other a foreigner with arresting blue eyes and yellow hair on her right. "Watari-chan, this is Yanagi Renji. Take a seat, Yanagi-kun," she instructed, surfing the empty chairs around the oval table with her eyes

Yanagi shifted, scanning the room for Yagyuu, who his data stated would be present, and finding the said boy two seats away from Watari. The ginger-haired boy met his eyes, then averted them and stared formally ahead.

Yanagi went to sit by him, putting himself closer to the second-year girl. She sat where the vice-president usually sat. _Could _she_ be the vice-president?_ he wondered. It seemed unlikely, given her youth, but it had happened before.

As the rest of the members filtered in minutes afterward, Yanagi sat and surveyed the room keenly, like he had done as secretary the year before.

Komura stood up, pushing back her wheeled, red chair. "All right, everyone, I think we're all here, so I'm just gonna start the meeting with some intros.

"First of all, I'd like to introduce my vice-president Watari Maeko." She rested a shoulder on the second-year, and it seemed like Watari would stand up for a moment, but she remained seated and simply tilted her head toward the student council members. Komura laughed.

"Next, my secretary, Davis Regina." The foreigner girl stood up, bowing awkwardly and too low.

"I hope I can serve you well," she said in polite Japanese, too plastic to feel natural—like how Jackal used to speak, Yanagi thought. There were a few extra glances cast toward her and her outlandish looks. She wasn't ugly, per se, but looked nothing like the bloated-faced and pimpled complexions out of their English textbooks.

Komura nodded affirmatively. "Lastly, my name is Komura Shinobu, successor to Yanagi Koizumi, and your student council president." The room bloomed into polite applause as Komura winked at Yanagi.

"All right, all right." She clapped her hands loudly. "That's enough of that. Here's the drill for today: we're gonna mingle and eat lunch and stuff for a while, and later we'll discuss some stuff worth discussing. Now," sweeping her arms dramatically over the room, she boomed, "_disperse_."

Small chuckles came from the students. They got up around Yanagi and greeted each other politely, maturely, with a reserved air. Some who were more than acquaintances but less than friends hugged and the others just shook hands.

"You know the president well," Yagyuu observed, free to talk now that everyone else was.

Yanagi turned and nodded. "She was my sister's vice-president and friend. We've been acquainted."

Komura, who was rolling around in her chair and greeting members, stopped and looked over their shoulders. "More than that," she interrupted. "Me and Koizumi-senpai were tight. I know everything about him."

Yagyuu raised an eyebrow.

Komura laughed at his reaction. "Just kidding. But I do know Yanagi-kun—through Koizumi-senpai, of course. And I'll be expecting contributions from _both_ of you." She raised her eyebrows, eyes darting between them expectantly.

"Of course," Yagyuu said.

"You'll receive nothing less," Yanagi added, smirking.

Komura rolled her eyes and muttered something. "Well, great. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go acquaint myself with my subjects."

With that, she rolled away.

Once she was gone, Yagyuu raised an eyebrow, saying with slight interest, "Eccentric."

Yanagi laughed and thought about what Koizumi would probably say. "She hasn't changed at all," he finally replied, a smile spreading across his face.

~x~

Kirihara shoved the remaining food from his lunchbox into his mouth and, after barely chewing, gulped, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing. He capped his lunchbox and made it to his next class before his friend, Takoyo. He was sitting nonchalantly at his desk, with his feet propped up on the desk, when Takoyo entered.

"Damn you, Akaya," Takoyo cursed, flopping down in the seat beside Kirihara.

"You're just jealous," declared Kirihara, sticking his tongue out.

Yukimura Sumiko strode into the classroom out of the corner of his eye, and he sat up discretely, expecting her to make a beeline for him. Instead she headed for the window seats that Kirihara had lost to Shiori Yuki and her friend, Ando Nene.

Takoyo, the perceptive bastard he was, noticed the change and grinned slyly. "Akaya, there something I should know? Something concerning a certain Yukimura Sumiko?"

Kirihara snorted and his eyes darted back to Takoyo, though Sumiko still remained in the corner of his vision as she talked to Shiori and Ando. "Got nothing to do with you," he grumbled.

"I didn't hear a 'no,'" Takoyo said proudly.

Kirihara rolled his eyes and turned away from the three girls completely. "Twenty laps," he instructed.

"I'm not on the tennis team," Takoyo said.

Kirihara's eyes drilled into Takoyo's as he peered up through his mess of black hair at the brown-haired boy. "You're right. One hundred laps for not joining."

Takoyo laughed, and Kirihara saw Sumiko leave as the teacher entered.

~x~

Niou gathered his books together as the last bell rung, signaling the end of school. _Sweet freedom,_ he thought, gathering up his books and shoving them into his backpack. He swung it over his shoulder and met Yagyuu out in the hall. The ginger-haired boy was talking with Yanagi about something for student council, and Niou recalled that it had been the first student council meeting of the school year today.

"I'll see you at tennis." Yagyuu broke away from the conversation as he fell into step beside Niou.

"Hi, Niou-kun."

Niou smirked and mimicked, "'Hi, Niou-kun.' Seriously, drop the formality. It's annoying."

Yagyuu glared at him. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"All right, I agree, you _don't_ know what I'm talking about. What else is new?" Niou asked.

Yagyuu turned away while he pushed his glasses up and straightened the collar of his uniform. He seemed to be seeking something or someone out in the crowd. At Niou's questioning look, he said, "I'm looking for the daughter of my parent's friends. Have to show her to speech club."

"Gotcha," Niou said. There was a pause, then he grinned and looked at Yagyuu out of the corner of his eye.

"Niou-kun," the ginger-haired boy warned.

"What?" Niou said. The usual lilting cadence of his speech barely changed at his denial. Yagyuu huffed, and Niou let the silence simmer for a while.

"So…this girl…" He trailed off, letting his friend fill in the blanks.

"This girl," Yagyuu repeated, not falling for the bait.

"She hot?"

"I did not notice."

Niou scoffed and snorted almost at the same time. "Right. Sorry, I forgot. You're too much of a _'gentleman'_ to possess hormones."

Yagyuu stopped abruptly in a front of a classroom. The teacher inside was one of those long-winding, lecturing teacher, Niou could see. The students were still inside, on the edge of their seats, waiting for the teacher to dismiss them. Finally, she waved her hand and, like a bullet from a gun, each and every student shot from their seat and raced toward the door.

Yagyuu and Niou stepped aside to make room for the onslaught of students. Niou tried to find the girl his friend was waiting for, but wasn't sure until a girl veered away from her friend and stepped in front of them.

"I'll see you later, Kukaku-san," the girl's friend said, waving over her shoulder.

She nodded and waved back before aiming her focus at Yagyuu and Niou. "Hi, Yagyuu-kun," she greeted, ducking her head sheepishly. "Sorry, for this. I lost my map."

"It's fine, Kukaku-chan," Yagyuu said.

Niou kept his eyes trained on the girl as he elbowed his friend and muttered, "Well, go on Hiroshi, be a gentleman. Introduce us." She was nothing special—average curves, average hair, average face; the only thing worth noticing about her were her eyes, which darkened the longer Niou looked into them.

Yagyuu sighed. "I'm going to regret this," he replied, "but not as much as Kukaku-chan." Taking a deep breath, he said, "Kukaku-chan, this is my friend, Niou Masaharu. Niou-kun, this is Kukaku Naomi."

Kukaku looked up and met his eyes. Holding out a hand, she said, "Nice to meet you. I just transferred here from Aihara Daiichi, so I don't know this school, I'm afraid. That's why I'm intruding on you and Yagyuu-kun's time. Sorry." She dipped her head again, lowering her eyes to her suspended hand.

Niou let time stop to make it uncomfortable for her, and just as she was about to retract her hand, he reached out and gripped it in his own, holding on as he eyed her for a reaction.

Her cheeks turned pink.

He grinned, receiving the desired result, and pulled back. The silence that ensued afterward was incredibly awkward for Kukaku Naomi.

Finally, Yagyuu, deciding that any longer of this would throw into question his gentleman reputation, cleared his throat into a fisted hand. "Let's go," he murmured softly.

Kukaku looked up and coughed, too. "Right. Let's."

Niou walked beside Yagyuu as they led the way to the speech practice room. He kept his hands in his pockets and brushed elbows with him. After a moment of silence, save the shuffling of Kukaku's feet, he whispered to Yagyuu, "I thought you said she was _hot_."

Yagyuu muttered back, "I never said anything of the sort."

"Uh-uh," Niou said. "I clearly remember an 'I did not notice.'"

"And if I remember clearly, that was not a 'she's hot,'" Yagyuu sneered.

"In your language it is," Niou replied.

"Since when?"

"Since forever." Niou chuckled lowly.

Behind them, Kukaku's nervous silence turned into curiosity for their whispered conversation.

"Niou-kun, back there, with the handshake…was that really necessary?" Yagyuu asked.

"What? Feeling territorial?" Niou teased.

"Not at all," Yagyuu said. He stopped in front of a room and opened the door. "We're here."

Kukaku, before stepping forward, smiled at Yagyuu and managed a feeble curve of the mouth for Niou. "Thank you, Yagyuu-kun, Niou-san. I'm sorry, again."

Wordlessly, Yagyuu waited for her to go in before closing it silently.

"A perfect gentleman," Niou sang. "You've got all the girls fooled and smitten, Hiroshi." He slugged Yagyuu's arm as they started back.

"And you?" Yagyuu inquired. "All the girls I see following you are sluts and whores…and, you know, some of them aren't even girls."

Niou laughed. It was much more fun to hangout with Yagyuu when he wasn't repeatedly trying to keep on the gentleman's image. "You trying to imply something?"

"Not so much implying as out rightly saying," Yagyuu mused.

Still cracking a sly smile, Niou said in a low, indecipherable tone, "Shut up. We're late to tennis practice."

~x~

The sun peered out over the treetops, beaming down on the group of sweaty, teenage boys. The wind caressed the sweltering skins of these boys. Their muscles pumped in unison as they swung their racquets together and their lungs heaved from shouting out numbers. Another group ran laps around the track, sweat beading on their foreheads.

"All right, first-years, take a break!" Makoto Nobuo clapped his hands, ceasing the brutish shouting. "Let's get a drink of water and pair up. We're doing a practice drill next. Second- and third-years, run another fifty laps, then follow Koichi's instructions."

The first-year boys sighed with relief and moved their shoulders in aching circles. Koichi shook his head in disappointment. Even some of the regulars seemed to be tired. _Well,_ he thought, _this is what it takes to play at the high school level, and you should leave if you can't take it._ Every year they got the same group of naïve hopefuls, and every year at least half of them quit by the end of the season.

"Disappointing, isn't it?" Makoto commented, standing with hands on hips as he surveyed the half-dead kids.

Koichi was reluctant to agree with Makoto, but he couldn't deny such an obvious truth. "It's pathetic, really," he said.

Makoto clapped his hands again at a group of second- and third-years. "C'mon, get going!" He looked at the waiting first-years and took a deep breath. "All right. Let's have four pairs to a court. A quarter for each pair. We're gonna practice ball control and cross-court shots as well as some teamwork. And don't any of you give me that I-don't-do-teamwork shit."

The group of boys dispersed and sorted themselves out. Koichi watched them as they began playing, lip curling up at the great range in skill level. He could see that all of the middle school regulars had formed a little group, with the addition of a nervous little boy on the same team as Yukimura who couldn't even get in a proper shot in the presence of these sharks. He considered breaking the team up, but they would only be challenged when against each other. Anywhere else and they would scare people.

"So, see anyone with potential," Makoto asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Koichi shook his head. "Only people worth considering are those three middle schoolers." He didn't need to gesture to show what he meant.

Makoto agreed with a simple nod of his head. He moved his neck as he scanned the rest of the boys. "Hey, that kid, he looks okay." He pointed the boy out with a dip of the neck, motioning to a first-year with perfect form that had reached most of the shots given to him.

Koichi shook his head. "He's good, but with the addition of the Big Three from last year we'll be overrun by singles players. See anyone with doubles potential?"

Makoto looked at him curiously, a small smirk on his face. Koichi turned and met his gaze steadily. "What?"

"You're so sure that the Big Three will make it," Makoto remarked.

"Of course. They are clearly better than most of the third-years. And we'd be crazy if we didn't use them on the team."

"Nice point." Makoto shrugged. "Well, anyway, I can't think of anyone from this crowd. I suppose we'll just scout out some during the ranking matches. We still have our third- and second-years, after all."

"Yeah," Koichi said, "I suppose."

~x~

"All right, Renji, serve away!" Yukimura called, positioning himself on the opposite side of the court.

With perfect form, Renji lifted the ball into the air and slammed his racquet into the back. Yukimura's partner—grotesquely out of shape—swung, all flailing limbs and such, and his racquet passed through the ball, which materialized behind him.

_Forty-love,_ Sanada thought. He had a feeling this match would be harder two-on-one instead of him and Yanagi versus Yukimura and the pile of dough flopping around next to him.

"Keep working on that forehand, Takahashi-kun," Yukimura encouraged, lending his partner a beaming smile.

"Work on it all you want, kid. Not like it's gonna make a different," Niou sneered derisively.

Yagyuu didn't disagree, just wrapped his racquet around and hit a backhand to Marui and Jackal across the court.

Sanada adjusted his cap and rearranged his limbs into position, watching dully as Yukimura said something to Takahashi who responded with an enthusiastic nod. He wasn't against Yukimura helping Takahashi—he was glad, even, that Yukimura was finally maturing and learning to help people for reasons other than because they could do something for him. But the captain of Rikkai's tennis team was discipline, motivation, "Practice makes good" and "More practice makes almost-good-enough for Rikkai" and "No amount of practice will ever make you perfect but you sure as hell need to be close." This can-do attitude, this soft, cheery encouragement—this was a fool's way of making someone feel better.

Sanada felt disgusted.

"Renji, can we serve this time 'round?" Yukimura asked. Sanada reminded himself that he could still glean information about Yukimura, despite his partner's mediocrity. Keeping still, he quelled his urge to knead the bridge of his nose as Yukimura handed a ball to Takahashi.

Takahashi jumped awkwardly and swung, hitting the ball to Niou and Yagyuu's side of the court. The ball bounced before Niou, as he was about to volley. Niou's volley went wide and allowed Marui to score an easy point.

"Shit," Niou muttered, sending daggers in Takahashi's direction as the shadowy annoyance around him became palpable.

"Sorry!" Takahashi called sheepishly.

"No problem," Marui chuckled, serving.

"Shut it, Bunta." Niou glowered.

Sanada sighed, watching Yukimura patiently talk Takahashi through the process of serving, something that came so naturally to Sanada's muscles. The pleasant smile on Yukimura seemed off, like a ball toss with spin or returning the ball without the follow-through. In fact, Yukimura was off, in his body movements and mannerisms.

Sanada tapped his racquet against the valley of his curled palm, feeling like he was trying to remember something that never happened. He'd never been a terribly sentimental person, never looked at a person and decided to be careful because they were having a bad day. Searching Yukimura's face now was like looking at a thousand puzzle pieces scattered on the ground and trying to imagine what the picture would look like—annoyingly impossible. Random features stuck out to Sanada—the smile that didn't reach his eyes, the tenseness around his jaw, that constant hardness of his muscles—but he wouldn't know what to do with them even if a knife was pointed at his throat.

Yukimura raised his head, stepping back as Takahashi tossed the ball for a serve. The neon green thing rolled off his fingers—_wrong_, Sanada thought—and he tipped it over the net.

Yanagi lazily swung his racquet and returned it between Takahashi and Yukimura. They both stepped forward, but Yukimura clenched his jaw and doubled back, letting Takahashi take the ball and net it.

"Sorry, Yukimura-san," Takahashi apologized.

"Why don't you try serving again?" Yukimura picked up the ball rolling towards him and handed it to Takahashi.

"Ah, thank you, Yukimura-san."

Sanada glared at Yukimura, watching for the small minuscule movements. He felt Yanagi clap a hand on his shoulder. Heard the soft tone saying, "I know what you're thinking, Genichirou. I see it, too. He's different."

Yanagi's eyes opened and fell onto Yukimura. "More careful."

* * *

><p>AN: So, go on, review, I know you want to. Anyway, development! Kind of…I suck at plot development and such, but bear with me? Really sorry for the lack of updates. Please tell me if you spot any mistakes in it, 'cause I updated this in a rush. It's probably filled with them DX

Disclaimer: I don't own the lyrics at the top, which are from _Whisper_ by A Fine Frenzy.


	4. We're On Each Other's Team

**We're On Each Other's Team**

…

"_In my crown I am king_

_I love their endless worshipping_

_I am raw, a dinosaur, but I will never be extinct_

_So don't mess with me…"_

…

The end-of-school bell had been and will always be a much-awaited sound to the ears of many, with its symbolic, yet annoying, tune that brought fantasies of lazily sprawling with friends at the local eatery or not-so-lazily power-shopping the popular stores at Kanagawa Mall into a reality. However, welcomed as it was, excited students were not usually excited so much as hopelessly bored, and none, so far, had found themselves inclined to develop a sixth sense for time and bounce from their seats one or two beats before the clichéd tune of resonating xylophones.

Today was, in fact, the beginning of the interschool ranking matches down at the tennis courts. All day today and yesterday, Yasuo's stomach had boiled and froze, and boiled again, and then some; his emotions had ranged from nervous to excited, scared to confident. So much so he had begun to wonder if he'd developed a new strain of the common cold as well as a new kind of personality disorder—probably called pre-ranking-match anxiety disorder, P.R.M.A. disorder for short.

He watched the clock with glazed eyes, heard each tick of the minute hand with stark clarity, and yet he wouldn't have been able to give the boy who sat behind him the time if he had asked right that moment.

Almost before his mind registered his actions, he pushed himself to his feet and swooped up his backpack, shoving his textbooks inside to the first beat of the bell. The teacher peered up at him from her spot grading papers behind her desk; her lipstick-lips shiny from the sterile lighting as she parted them for a reprimand then closed them as Yasuo swept out of the room with every other boy on the tennis team on his tail.

He stopped by the bathroom and splashed his face with water. Came out to a legion of students buzzing from their classrooms like worker bees from a hive. The current swept him towards the doors, parting them like Moses had to the Red Sea, and Yasuo ran the rest of the way to the tennis courts, arriving with chest heaving steadily.

Straightening his shoulders, Yasuo scowled at the large group crowding the bulletin board, feeling as though two people joined the crowd the moment one left. He should have been in the early group, but he realized his bathroom detour had cost him precious seconds. He looked around, observing the few people not gathering 'round the bulletin board and considered joining them.

But—

His stomach churned up his lunch in anticipation, eagerness, and he felt like he might throw-up if he didn't know what group he was in _now_.

Taking advantage of his narrow build, he squeezed between the hips of two second-years and nearly crawled through the tiptoed toes, finally emerging in the proverbial eye of the storm. He scanned through the six groups, found his name and searched for any of the Three Demon's in the same group, absolutely certain and hoping at least one would appear.

He realized, with a pit of disappointment sprouting in his stomach, that none of them were there. And, quite on the contrary, he had been clumped with five nobodies, the vice-captain, and Marui Bunta.

He recoiled out of the crowd, exiting through the side, and looked around. Yukimura was strolling toward him, among the few boys having already gone through the tedious process of shove-look-leave-change. The lax smile he wore sent Yasuo's blood to his cheeks in embarrassment at their previous conversation. Yasuo watched, expecting him to breeze right past him with that classic air of Yukimura superiority, but Yukimura stopped before him, inquiring lightly, "Excited?"

Yasuo nodded and offered a slight smile. "Not as much as I should be." He paused, realized he had forgotten to check Yukimura's group in his disappointment. "Which group are you in?"

Yukimura shrugged, an elegant lift and fall of broad shoulders. "Two."

Yasuo nodded, clasping his hands behind his back, and fought the urge to fidget, finding nothing else to do in the uncomfortable situation. "Well…" he started, "all right."

Yukimura was quiet, considering Yasuo like an eagle its prey. Finally, he tilted his head at a fifteen-degree angle and asked "And you?" as though Yasuo should have answered the question before he'd voiced it.

Yasuo, flustered, nearly jumped out of his skin, as embarrassing as it was to admit. He clenched his fists and bit his lip, angry that this fragile-looking blue-haired boy could make him flounder with a few careless words, could make him blush and feel inferior just by smiling.

"Three," he said.

Yukimura _tsk_ed. "That's a shame. I would have liked to play you."

Yasuo narrowed his eyes. Had Yukimura discovered Yasuo's desire to challenge him? Or was he just being nice? Gazing into those cerulean orbs, Yasuo found his tongue turn heavier in his mouth. And Yukimura, damn him, smiled wider as though he knew exactly what was running through Yasuo's head.

"I'm just gonna…_go_ now," Yasuo said, finally. Leaning backward on his heels and stumbling into the locker room.

Later, he emerged dressed in full tennis attire and clear-headed. He found Yukimura chatting amiably with Sanada and Yanagi, already changed, and clenched his fists.

Thought, _You got lucky. Next time, I'll play you. Next time, I'll beat you._

~x~

Marui Bunta stuffed the remainder of his school uniform into his locker haphazardly, reaching into his pant's pocket for the pack of gum he always kept there. He shut the metal door with a _clang_ and picked up his tennis racquet, turning to Jackal, who sat on the bench, fingers weaving blackened shoelaces into a sturdy knot. "Ready?"

Jackal looked up, nodded. "Let's go."

They exited the locker room with the unity that could only come from being one of the best doubles teams in the nation, sat down together on a bench without a word and watched the beginning matches together.

Marui stuck a slender, rectangular piece of gum in his mouth, lifted his arms up and crossed his fingers behind his head, heavy eyes registering the matches lazily. Makoto Nobuo was up first, and the captain dominated the court with his heavy presence and tennis skills. The way he played was pure offense, attack after attack relentless until the third-year he played, trembling and stunned, fell onto swollen kneecaps after a return that'd gone out. The match had ended in twenty minutes with two sets resulting in six games to love.

_Game, set, match: Makoto Nobuo,_ Marui thought, popped a bubble. Despite the apparent one-sided-ness of Makoto's style, he couldn't have worked his way up to captain based on a pure aggressive-baseliner style alone, as Makoto had demonstrated in this match. Perhaps—Marui smirked thinking this, and stole a glance at the blue-haired boy standing nearby—perhaps playing Yukimura Seiichi would draw out the reason Makoto Nobuo was captain.

"Nice kid, that one," Marui remarked as Makoto exited the court without acknowledging his collapsed opponent. He'd seemed nice enough at the initiation, but Marui figured no captain would want to dirty his hands with someone of the skill level of that boy.

Jackal nodded. "He's the captain, right?"

"Not for long."

Marui looked up and saw Niou standing above them. "You," he said accusingly. "I still don't like you."

The pale-haired boy tilted his head at an angle, meeting Marui with one eye that caught the sun just right and twinkled with something cold, harsh, distant. "Feeling's mutual."

"Why d'you say that?" Jackal shifted his body to look up at Niou, tossing one arm over the back of the bench listlessly.

Niou shrugged and looked off into the distance. "I'm just sayin'—Yukimura's probably already launching Operation: Take Over Tennis Club."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Marui demanded.

"Exactly what it sounds like." Niou leveled a perfunctory glare at Marui for just a moment, as though it wasn't even worth his time to _look_ at Marui for a full second. And Marui thought, _Damn him_.

"Still, I don't think the upperclassmen are just gonna step back and let a first-year lead them," Jackal said.

"Probably not," Niou murmured absently, eyes fixed on something in the distance that only he could see. "But, then again, ol' Yukimura has a way of getting what he wants." He smirked and strolled away.

Marui watched him go, turned back to Jackal when the sight of him sauntering away started to turn his stomach the wrong way. He made a face at Jackal. "Damn Niou, that know-it-all."

Jackal looked at him. Marui noticed the sun reflected off of his shaved head and got the urge to polish it. "All right, gay kid."

Marui turned red. _"Shut up!"_

The slow buzz around them ceased abruptly as interrupted conversations failed to hold gravity over a flustered and red Marui Bunta, former regular of Rikkai Dai Middle School, to the tennis-playing folk standing around. Marui, under careful scrutiny, stomped away while hiding behind a bubble he'd just blown.

Jackal rolled his eyes, neglecting to point out how Marui had only moved a few feet away and was stealing not-so-discreet glances at Jackal over his shoulder. A few moments passed and the conversations started up again. Yagyuu came over to sit by Jackal, occupying Marui's previous spot, talking to him in hushed tones (probably purposely, Jackal figured, to bait Marui a little); Marui, taking the bait, moved in closer to catch what they were talking about, turning away each time Jackal glanced back.

~x~

"Will the players Marui Bunta and Yuudai Yasuo enter the court?"

Marui heard the call from the referee and stood up mid-stretch, jumping onto his feet and giving his muscles a last little yank. He picked up his tennis racquet and stalked past Jackal (pointedly twirling his racquet to make his friend flinch) and made his way onto the court.

His opponent was a first-year, slightly built and around Marui's height, if not a couple centimeters taller. Marui took his place at the net and held out a hand, smirking with glittering lavender eyes—because tennis was a mental game as well as a physical one. "Ready to be awed by my genius skills," Marui asked, going through the smirk-wink-pose routine. It was usually more fun when reporters were around to snap pictures and murmur awed observations, but the moon-eyed awe from this kid would be enough.

The first-year's snappy retort of "Yeah, call me when you develop some" did not register in his head until a second later.

He had expected a polite little head-dip, a small-voiced mutter of "It's an honor, Marui-sama," and perhaps even a little squeak of "Please take care of me." But this change of attitude was nice, different, and Marui chuckled good-naturedly.

"Touché." He popped a light green bubble into the boy's face and shook his hand, squeezing hard and grinning when the boy squeezed back. "Marui Bunta, first-year, genius."

"Yasuo Yuudai, first-year, human," the boy replied curtly. "Rough or smooth."

"Smooth."

The racquet spun like a top and fell onto the court with a clatter. "Smooth," Yasuo declared, picking it up.

"And the genius begins." Marui smirked, walking back to the baseline. He took his place and positioned his body accordingly. Before he tossed the ball up, he looked at the boy and asked, "Ready?"

"Shut up and serve," came the reply.

Another lighthearted laugh, and the ball came zooming toward Yasuo. It was fast and strong, taking Yasuo by surprise, and he lunged to reach it, cursing under his breath as he was forced to lob so early in the game.

Marui sighed. And he had thought the boy's bravado meant something. He looked into the dark, perfect circle silhouetted against the sun, sticking out his non-dominant arm to block the shine from his eyes. He smashed it and heard the referee's call of "Fifteen-love!"

He walked back to the baseline, bouncing another tennis ball he'd dug from his pocket. "Ready?" he asked Yasuo once more. Yasuo nodded, eyes intent on the ball, and Marui served again. Immediately after, he ran in for a volley, but the boy's return was sharper than before and hit the left corner of the court.

"Fifteen-all!"

_Okay…so not _that_ bad_, Marui amended. He popped his bubble and grinned at the tennis ball in his hand. He served again, but this time didn't run forward for a volley. Just as he thought, the boy whipped it to one of the corners. Marui let the spin die a little on his racquet before returning, giving him time to run to the net.

The next shot came at the crook of his dominant arm, not hard enough to hurt him but fast enough to make him flinch. Fortunately, Marui had played Akaya enough times to recognize the near-violent precision. He twisted his arm and volleyed it back.

Yasuo caught it again and aimed another shot at Marui's body. It spun at him, unrelenting in its path to his chest. As always, panic rose inside him, but as always, he caught himself, bent his knees, and skimmed his racquet under the ball, changed the spin just a little.

The ball met the net, teetered on the edge in a breathless moment when no one knew which way it would go, and began to roll delicately, like an acrobat walking along a tightrope suspended over a sheer drop.

_Pok_…

The onlookers had gone silent. Marui smirked and posed with a bubble emerging from his mouth. "Tightrope Walking," he whispered around it. Said louder, as to continue their previous joke, "My signature move, also genius."

Yasuo gritted his teeth but kept his face from twitching in anger. Marui straightened up and practically strutted back to the baseline, tossing his head at the mute referee with his back to Yasuo.

"That's thirty-fifteen."

~x~

"Forty-fifteen."

_Damn it,_ thought Yasuo, grinding his teeth together, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow. He was losing! How could he be losing? He wasn't supposed to lose!

"Awed by my genius-like tennis skills yet?" Marui smirked, positioned to serve yet waiting, as though expecting reporters to jump from the bushes and snap pictures of the "genius."

Yasuo growled, "No. Serve," and got back into position.

The ball flew to his side of the court and crashed into the corner of the service box. He backhanded it, imagined the sound of it hitting the backboard and coming back. His sore muscles moved on their own accord as they began to remember the feel of his racquet and the court beneath his feet.

Yasuo smiled as this new way of thinking took ahold of his muscles, moved them with newfound grace and confidence. He remembered the countless hours he spent practicing, remembered hitting against random people at tennis clubs and winning. Just because this was Marui Bunta didn't mean anything other than he would have to beat this boy to prove he was worthy of playing the Big Three.

Even Marui sensed his newfound confidence and the beginning of the turn of the match. Yasuo could see something like interest disrupt the boredom before, but interest wasn't enough. Yasuo reminded himself: this boy was far from the Big Three's caliber of play, and if Yasuo could only _interest_ him, he was nowhere near where he thought he was.

With that thought, he grabbed his racquet with both hands and slammed the ball at Marui with the strength of his two arms. Marui's eyes widened in surprise as instinct took over and he stuck his arm out, just barely returning it. The ball lobbed into the air and Yasuo saw his chance, jumped back on hind legs, and smashed.

Marui's face was grim as he caught the ball in the outer edge of his racquet. His wrist bent with the force of the smash, bent until his racquet was perpendicular to the ground and farther, exposing the black of his wrist weights. Yasuo thought he heard a faint crack, was sure as the sun's rise in the east that Marui's face drained of color.

He didn't hear the ball fall on his side of the net. Only felt horror, afresh, sprouting in his stomach.

~x~

"Time out," Marui moaned, holding up his other hand and walking off the court.

"Bunta, what happened?" Jackal demanded, at the other side of the fence.

Marui gritted his teeth as he pulled off his wrist weights. "Shit," he forced out. "That smash was really something."

The fence trembled as Jackal shook it in frustration. "Did he do it on purpose?"

"No." Marui looked up through his pain, saw the first-year boy watching, horrified, from no-man's land. "No, I don't think so."

"Damn it, Bunta," Jackal cursed. "You still gonna go on?"

Marui nodded. As if he needed to ask. Rikkai didn't forfeit, not when they could help it. Even if this wasn't an official match, even if he was risking his wrist, being a part of the Rikkai tennis team had taught him that you didn't quit, didn't lose, didn't wimp out unless it was absolutely necessary.

Smashing even though holding the tennis racquet felt like torture, running when your legs were about to fall off, swinging the racquet with all your energy—that's what it meant to represent Rikkai through tennis.

Losing was not permitted. Quitting was not permitted.

The ref called down, "Do you forfeit, Marui-san?"

"No!" Marui shouted back. "I just need my wrist wrapped. Jackal, get in here."

The Brazilian ran in and bound his throbbing wrist tightly. Offering a helpful smile, he patted it with tennis-roughed callouses and got out of the way. "I need to get to my match, but…don't overdo yourself, Bunta."

"Please, Jackal, I'm a genius. I got this." Marui stood up and picked up the tennis racquet even though he threatened to drop it when pain spiked through his wrist. He walked onto the court without looking back and held up the shaking tennis racquet in two trembling hands.

He fixed Yasuo with a glare and a small smirk, all pretenses of a good humor gone from his face.

~x~

"The match Yukimura Seiichi versus Makoto Nobuo is about to start. Will the players please come onto the court?" Yanagi said into the still air, perched atop the ref's bench with data notebook and mechanical pencil in hand.

As the blue-haired first-year stood up from below him and met the captain, Yanagi smirked to himself, secretly rather pleased that he had been able to convince Makoto into letting him referee this particular match. It had cost the mental trauma of a second-year as well as a few more rushed matches, but, really, the reward was more than enough.

"Let's have a good match, Yukimura-san," Makoto said, gripping the first-year's hand with tightened muscles whilst staring into his eyes. Already he was beginning to psych out the opponent.

"Agreed, Makoto-buchou." The same steely gaze and tightened muscles in the hand. Yukimura barely batted an eyelash. Yanagi smirked—the day Yukimura Seiichi was intimidated by a simple handshake was the day Genichirou ditched school for a girl and referred to Echizen Ryoma as someone who was _okay_.

Yanagi's lips moved in time with the scrawl of his pencil as he muttered small things about Yukimura: "Age, fifteen. Height, 177 centimeters. Weight, seventy-three kilograms. Primary school, Minami Shonen Elementary School. Secondary school, Rikkai Dai Middle School…"

The boys were at the baseline now and, judging from Makoto's receiving pose and the tennis ball in Yukimura's hand, Yukimura had won the racquet spin. Yanagi, while jotting his notes, cleared his throat and announced, "One-set match. Yukimura to serve."

It happened like breathing: the gentle inhale as Yukimura lifted the ball into the air, back arcing like a dancer's, and the sharp exhale as his racquet met the ball with electric energy and he threw himself forward and stepped into the sharply defined land of tennis.

The speed of the shot had surprised Makoto, his eyes widening in surprise before instincts kicked in and he returned it into the baseline. The sharp return back dug into the sweet spot of Makoto's racquet, and the dark-haired boy bent his knees and scooped it over the net.

A charming smile caught Yanagi's attention as he turned back to Yukimura. It was so different from his reserved behavior yesterday; it made Yanagi feel like sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Yukimura volleyed it into no-man's land, too fast for Makoto to react.

"Love-fifteen," Yanagi said.

The match went on in such a manner, with Yukimura playing with effortless grace while Makoto barely hung on, tailing each of Yukimura's games with a hard-won game of his own, each point with another. Yanagi anticipated the Yips, Yukimura's signature technique. Was on the edge of his seat waiting for it.

Then, sneaking up like a ninja, Yanagi found himself announcing the beginning of a tiebreaker. By now, both players' necks glistened with sweat, the little crystals becoming airborne every time one made a sudden movement. Makoto was obviously the more tired of the two, looking like he could barely hold his racquet; Yukimura seemed considerably better to inexperienced eyes, but Yanagi saw the little details that betrayed his exhaustion.

Yanagi looked down, spotting Genichirou watching below him, arms folded and looking like the same severe middle school vice-captain. "He's certainly improved," whispered Yanagi.

"Quite," replied the capped boy.

Makoto Nobuo, mostly aggressive baseliner but still well-rounded, possessed stamina to rival the best, and could probably beat Yanagi in a game seventy-five percent of the time. And Yanagi chuckled inwardly with amusement; a first-year holding back on skill was pressuring him.

Yukimura jumped up and smashed a lob, hitting it too hard and too quickly for Makoto to reach it in time. Yanagi smirked, guessed what Makoto was thinking right now…

~x~

…_Damn it, damn it, don't—no, God, _damn it_, Makoto, get a grip on yourself, you're losing, get a grip, get a grip…!_

Makoto faced the innocent-looking first-year across from him. He tried to straighten up, hold on to the smithereens of his shattered pride as he faced this monster of a boy.

In his mind the score rang out as _Three-all_. He'd been ahead; one more point would have announced his win. But Yukimura had taken that back, just like he had taken back each of Makoto's hard won games as well as an extra one.

Makoto's vision wobbled. _God, no!_ he thought, locking his knees to keep himself from falling over. This was pathetic. He would not—repeat, would not—allow himself to face-plant in front of this _boy_. He stiffened himself and raised his head, tossed his sticky hair out of his eyes and locked those eyes with Yukimura, relieved to see that exhaustion flickered across those unnatural things as well.

The boy served and Makoto lunged on tired legs to the side. He hit it back as hard as possible, determined not to let the boy pressure him into a lob or easy shot as he had before. The shot came back twice as powerful, it seemed, and Makoto thought he felt his shoulder jerk out of the socket.

The ball arced through the air…a lob. Makoto nearly groaned, following the first-year's steps as he backed up to smash it at the opportune moment. Tiredly, Makoto followed the ball's trajectory back to his side of the court with his eyes and forced his legs to carry him to the spot, sticking his racquet out and letting it bounce off the surface.

He swore as it landed out, and called a time-out to get a drink of water. He made his way to his equipment set off to the side and unscrewed the cap of his water bottle, gurgling his first swig of water and spitting it out, gulping down half of the rest and pouring all that was left on his sweltering skin.

It occurred to him, then, that Yukimura Seiichi had yet to let out his Yips. He looked at the first-year, saw him lick his lips watching the water pour down Makoto's skin, and Makoto realized that Yukimura, too, was tired. Despite the cool façade, the little prodigy was just as exhausted as Makoto, too exhausted, maybe, to use Yips right this moment. And Makoto thought, _I have to end this before he can use it on me_.

Realizing this, he walked back to onto the court with a bit of a swagger and signaled to the first-year to begin again. He raised his racquet and served as hard as he could to the very edge of the service box, hitting the ball to the inside of Yukimura's arm like he would have with a beginner.

However, Yukimura Seiichi was no beginner. With a graceful shuffle, he was able to hit the ball back easily and even aim it at Makoto's inside arm.

"Damn Wonder Kid," Makoto muttered, smirking to himself at the impromptu nickname. It was befitting of the great Child of God, yet could be taken, and would be, as an insult. He ran for the ball and hit it back, allowing Yukimura to run him around the court like a puppet master.

The sweat was getting into his eyes now, pouring and weighing heavily on his eyelashes. His lungs screamed for air, his legs for release, but the adrenaline flooding his system kept him from focusing on that. _Just a little longer,_ he thought. _I can wear him out. Just don't use…_that_…_

It was almost physically painful to play the counter-puncher. He wanted to attack, run forward and volley or do _something_, to end this tediousness. Makoto didn't understand how Koichi _did it_, played like this all the time. His arm itched to smash as the ball arced as a rainbow through the air…

But he knew that Yukimura was taunting him, that the Wonder Kid was playing his own style of counter-puncher by trying to coax forward Makoto's aggressive-baseliner nature.

And damn, it was nearly working. Makoto gritted his teeth, tasting the salty tang of something like sweat but could just as well be tears from exhaustion. _Just a little longer…just until I calm down enough…_

And he did, because ten minutes into the hard rally, propelled only by the thought of _I have a plan_, the constant running became a steady rhythm and he could finally look for a chink in the monster's armor.

It was obvious now that Yukimura was getting tired. Had it been anyone else, he probably would have screamed "Just go down!" and lost control, but this was Yukimura Seiichi and he would never do that during a match.

Next, though, the eye would tell Makoto that there were no chinks in this man's armor. At least, there were no chinks within Makoto's ability to exploit. Yukimura's exhaustion would have been something usable, but Makoto was exhausted as well and Yukimura could turn the tables on Makoto with that strategy just as easily as flipping over a picnic basket.

_Then,_ thought Makoto, _I can't beat him with strategy. I'll rely on experience and pure willpower…_

Because when two players of the same caliber came together, the one who wanted to win the most gets the prize. The only problem with that plan, though, was the simple, harsh fact: Makoto and Yukimura were far from the same caliber. Makoto, though the captain, wouldn't have stood a chance against Yukimura and his Yips.

_But he isn't using it,_ Makoto thought, grit and determination filling up inside him. _He isn't using it, so I have a chance. I can still win without using it._

And he gripped his tennis racquet with calloused hands, locked his gaze on the neon green thing coming closer, closer. He gripped his tennis racquet with the hands that molded perfectly to every groove along the instrument and hit a winner down the line, past Yukimura and his widened eyes.

There was a moment of silence—it was as though even the birds had been silenced in awe. In a moment of closed-eye satisfaction, Makoto thought, _Four-all…finally._

It wasn't anything to clap about, but the onlookers still clapped. Makoto straightened up and would have put a hand up to silence it, but the illogically triumphant feeling welling up inside of him and stopped the motion.

He leveled a gaze on the first-year and grinned. Arranged his limbs into position for a serve. He paused before lifting up the ball and looked into Wonder Kid's eyes, smirking at the cold, harsh willpower resonating from within. Makoto thought, _This boy—this boy may be the Child of God, but there's no doubt he's a god on the tennis court._

He inhaled and served, and saw Yukimura running for the ball before it had even crossed the net. He smiled grimly. _Yukimura Seiichi, the rumors aren't exaggerating…you certainly are something._

~x~

Koichi sniffed disdainfully as he surveyed the ranking matches. They were the last ones of the day, competitions between amateurs of the same level. He raised his water bottle to his lips, licking their chapped surfaces when only a drop fell. He shook it, heard not the slosh of water, and sighed.

The sun was too hot for a day of watching lesser players duke it out, but this was what Makoto had assigned to him while the little bastard lounged under the awning of the clubhouse after his match with Yukimura, claiming to be watching from afar. Koichi could have said no, but he'd be damned if _anyone_ questioned the great Makoto Nobuo.

He walked to the fountain, taking a drink first to quench his thirst, then refilling his water bottle. The sound of scuffing, tired footsteps sounded behind him. He refilled his bottle and moved away.

Yasuo Yuudai took his place at the water fountain, nearly falling into the water from exhaustion. Koichi watched him wearily lap up the water as though his tongue was moving through gelatin. He'd been the boy who had played Marui Bunta and fainted after a disappointing loss; he'd taken away a set after Marui won the first and the two had been forced into a long tiebreaker to duke out the last set.

"Fukubuchou," the sickly voice coming from Yasuo's throat said.

Koichi stopped and turned back. "Yeah?"

Lapping up another squirt of water, Yasuo turned around and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'd like a punishment," he said levelly.

Koichi raised an eyebrow, amused and curious. "For what?"

Yasuo gulped so loudly Koichi cringed just hearing it. "I hurt someone during my match."

He had probably just woken up, Koichi concluded. Wasn't thinking clearly. Nobody in his or her right mind would actually demand a punishment.

But—but the sincerity in Yasuo's gaze spoke of shame and guilt and future shadows under the eyes. He was a nice boy, Yasuo Yuudai. Nice enough to see outside of winning, nice enough to realize that winning wasn't all that mattered.

"Was it on purpose?" asked Koichi.

Yasuo scuffed the ground with his shoe, looked down at the pattern he'd made in the dust. "No…but I lost control of the ball and let it hurt a teammate." He looked up with pleading eyes and clenched fists. "Please, Koichi-fukubuchou. I hurt his wrist and that sucks for him, but—but I don't think anyone should get hurt playing tennis."

Koichi sighed. Waved his hand dismissively. "Fine, go run fifty laps or something."

"Thank you, fukubuchou." Yasuo bowed and took another swipe at the water fountain before running off.

Looking at his disappearing back, Koichi pinched the bridge of his nose. Yasuo Yuudai would, he decided, be a valuable asset to the team—willingness to work, diligence, and honor were all traits hidden inside the small boy. But, Koichi thought, the boy was a dog, not a wolf, and he would be torn apart from the inside out if he didn't toughen up mentally.

Rikkai was a difficult school to join because of the all-around competitiveness of the students. Every single person who entered the school came for one reason: to become the best at _something_ in one of the most prestigious schools in Kanagawa. Going to Rikkai was a lot of pressure.

He thought of the first-year and sniffed. Yasuo wouldn't stand a chance if he didn't harden his heart.

After all, Koichi thought, _he_ hadn't.

~x~

Yukimura toweled off his hair, his muscles aching with exhaustion. He wasn't sure whether the moisture in his blue locks came from the shower water or sweat from his scalp, trapped in his hair during the match with Makoto. Wherever it came from, though, it was undeniable, the high schoolers' strength. Just ask his wrist and legs that and their redness would be confirmation enough.

The sound of Renji's final call resonated in his ear, even after the match had ended—_"Yukimura wins, seven games to six."_ Yukimura chuckled at the smug satisfaction in the data-specialist's voice, at Renji's faith in Rikkai's divine child.

In reality, Yukimura'd almost lost, probably would have if Makoto hadn't been hiding something. Yukimura was startled that Renji hadn't picked up on that; he was usually very observant. Though, perhaps the difference between being across someone on the court and watching from a bird's eyes was just that—a falter in step each time Yukimura hit a winner, a short shift in grip each time Makoto prepared to serve.

He shook his head, shouldered his tennis racquet bag with one shoulder and his backpack with the other, and stepped outside. The amber, setting-sun warmth peeked over the tree line, lighting up the tennis courts in infinite shades of red. He spotted Renji waiting for him a little way's away and Genichirou standing beside him. Both seemed different, slightly happier.

"Anything the matter?" he asked. They started down the path, an air of composure about them.

"You're recovering well," Genichirou said gruffly, the closest he'd gotten to a compliment since Nationals last year. "You won your match."

"I noticed, Captain Obvious," Yukimura said, ignoring the first statement as the word _recover_ still stuck a thorn in his side from his days as "that fragile captain with Guillain Barré." "I don't think I need you to inform me on the results of my own match."

"I think," Renji said quickly, ignoring the frustrated grunt from Genichirou, "Genichirou means to congratulate you on beating Makoto Nobuo."

Yukimura considered his words thoughtfully, even raising two fingers to his chin to stimulate the mustache glands. "I suppose…" he said vaguely, remembering each little give-away of Makoto's match. "But maybe I didn't really win."

Genichirou huffed, crossing his arms. "Nonsense. You won."

"No." Yukimura shook his head. "I won—I know that—but I think he was holding back." He turned to Renji for backup.

In response, the data-specialist pulled out his notebook and flipped through it. "Hmm, he was acting normal from what I could see," he remarked.

"Well maybe I could see more, playing him," Yukimura retorted, growing even more certain of what he saw.

Renji's eyes flashed in anger. They remained closed, though, and he said levelly, "That is a possibility. I'll watch out for signs of holding back next time."

"Thank you." Yukimura smiled, softening his remark before. He knew that Renji perceived any challenge to his data as an insult.

Genichirou, who'd remained thoughtfully silent, spoke up. Said, "Don't let him do that next time."

Yukimura nodded, though he doubted he had a choice. They walked to the bus stop wordlessly and sat down on the chairs. He pulled out his phone, remembering that Kirihara had ranking matches today, too.

~x~

_How's ranking matches?_

Kirihara slid open his phone to find this waiting for him in his inbox. _Good_, he replied and tucked his phone back into his pocket. He stopped under the sign at the bus stop and leaned against the pole. The sun's rays boiled his skin. It was damn hot today.

His phone beeped. He fished it from his pocket and read Yukimura's next text. _Anyone with potential?_ his old captain had texted.

_What? Worried that I won't be able to carry on the Rikkai legacy with all the old member's gone?_ Kirihara said, adding a smirking emoticon to the message. He pressed send then wrote another: _Worry about high school, buchou. I hear the captain's pretty good. Leave the middle school to the great Kirihara Akaya._

He dropped his phone back into his pocket and let his head sag against the pole. He kneaded his temples, suddenly feeling ancient. He had never felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, had never known the crushing feeling captainship came with. Back when Yukimura was still captain, all the responsibility Kirihara had felt had stemmed from the single thought, _Don't lose, never lose, Rikkai doesn't lose, win for buchou, for Rikkai_. Even though he had always known that he would be the Three Demons' successor, that it would be his responsibility to choose the next generation of Rikkai tennis representatives, he had never felt the full weight of the decision until now.

His head pounded with everything he had seen during practice. Each and every one of the players had seemed strong, but they had all seemed equally strong. And that was no good.

_Beep_. _I feel so reassured,_ came Yukimura's next text, practically reeking with sarcasm. He had replied only a few seconds after Kirihara's first reply had been sent, a rare thing for the ex-captain whose phone usually sat neglected in his backpack or pocket. He must be pretty bored, Kirihara mused.

_Beep_. _Have you been keeping an eye on Sumiko?_

Kirihara blinked at the screen. _Who?_ he typed and sent, wracking his mind for the name Sumiko. The image of a blue-haired youth flickered up, bleary but still recognizable, along with the headline _Buchou's Little Sister._

_I mean—yeah, of course, she's doing great,_ he amended, his thumb meeting _Send_ again.

_Beep_._ Somehow I find that hard to believe._ Kirihara practically heard the dry tone coming from the phone, like Yukimura had attached an audio file.

He got onto the bus quickly and typed, _Gotta run, buchou. I got stuff to do._ Afterward, he muted his phone and buried it in his schoolbag.

* * *

><p>AN: I swear, this is going to turn into one of those annoying soap operas that everyone hates. Sorry, I can't stop it. This is what my muse is giving me, and I can't think of anything else. Anyways, I wouldn't expect anything for a while. The well's pretty much run dry :/

Disclaimer: I don't own _Don't Mess With Me_ by temposhark.


	5. Darling, Your Kingdom is Crumbling

A/N: So…this is awkward…

* * *

><p><strong>Darling, Your Kingdom is Crumbling<strong>

…

"_Are you going to age with grace?_

_Are you going to age without mistakes?_

_Are you going to age with grace?_

_Or only to wake and hide your face…"_

…

Saturday found Yukimura Seiichi working on French homework in his bedroom rather than playing tennis with Sanada and Renji as per usual. The air outside was burned parchment, the snap of an open fire. Inside was no better since the Yukimura household's air conditioning was in need of repair.

"Nii-san, where're my shoes?" Sumiko's voice resonated through the floorboards beneath his feet.

Yukimura crossed the room for his French-English dictionary, which he would then have to translate to Japanese. "How'm I supposed to know?" he called back.

_"Auergh!"_ Sumiko exclaimed. She proceeded to call for their mother. _"Kaa-san_, I can't find my good flip-flops!" Her voice peaked to a whine at the end.

Fingers rubbing his temples, Yukimura stuck his head out the door. He snapped down, "Stop shouting, Sumiko!"

Ryoko said calmly, "They're right here, Sumiko."

"No, those are my bad ones. I need my good ones."

Yukimura let out a guttural groan. The wooden floorboards looked oddly tempting; at least they would be able to provide some relief from the stifling heat. He walked to the edge of the staircase, and called down to Sumiko, "Where are you going anyway?"

"None of your business, Nii-san," she nipped at him.

"Sumiko!" Ryoko scolded. She poked her head out of the kitchen to level a _look_ at Sumiko.

Sumiko suddenly decided to revisit the dusty ground beneath the sofa for a closer look. Yukimura heard her mutter a quiet "Whatever" into the muffled ground. Satisfied, Ryoko withdrew into the kitchen.

Ryoko's looks were patented for optimal kid-scaring efficiency.

The doorbell chimed outside once, twice, and then a third time. Yukimura couldn't blame them for ringing it multiple times; he thought the old, pull-chain doorbell his family owned begged to be rung over and over again, with its ancient texture and the muffled, resonating feeling of pulling the string. To Yukimura, the bell's ring was something artistic. A miniature version of the deep gongs at temples, the pulse of a bass in modern day music disguised as an artifact.

Sumiko jumped up and bolted to open the door.

To Yukimura's surprise, two elegant girls (_middle schoolers_, their appearance said; _women_, their aura countered) swept through the door. The former was elegant in a more traditional sense, a classic Japanese beauty, whereas the latter was short but shapely and more fancy than anything else. Both looked like the type to be found on magazines; the former on bridal magazines and the latter on something like _Vogue_.

Sumiko rocked back on her heels to let them through. "Shiori-senpai, you're here early," she commented, sounding neither pleased nor unhappy. Her voice was strangely dull.

The traditional one said, "We were hoping to hang out here for a while." She scanned the house with a calculating gaze and found Yukimura observing from the top of the staircase. "Hey, Yukimura-senpai."

Sumiko's scowl could have curdled milk. "Shiori-senpai, you don't have to pay attention to my brother." She shot Yukimura a _look_ that rivaled Ryoko's in its ferocity.

Yukimura decided to bow out with grace, before Sumiko could get upset with him, as she tended to do when he got within twenty feet of her friends. He offered a hasty smile to the two girls. "I'm sorry to cut this introduction short but you'll have to excuse me." He added, as a bitter afterthought, "Homework."

Shiori made a face, clearly intending to continue the conversation. "French? I hate that class. You need help?" She linked her arm through her friend's. "Ando knows French." The shorter girl drew her back ramrod straight and aimed a glaring, 1,000-watt smile in Yukimura's direction.

"I'd be _happy_ to help, Yukimura-senpai," Fancy One said. Her voice was slow, languid, and it reminded Yukimura of swallowing a gulp of too-sweet, too-sharp honey.

By this time, Sumiko had gotten reasonably annoyed. She announced loudly, grabbing ahold of both girls' hands, _"Let's go."_ She shot another _look_ at Yukimura, who raised both eyebrows.

The message was clear: _Don't want your new friends getting to know me?_

She signaled back with a harder glare, _Stay out of my social life, Nii-san._

Yukimura rolled his eyes to show that he was doing this because _he_ wanted to, not because she told him to. He said politely to Shiori and Ando, "I really wouldn't want to impose. I'm sure you have very exciting plans for today."

"No, really, it's completely _fine_," Shiori insisted. "The bus doesn't come until twelve-thirty. We've still got thirty minutes."

To Yukimura's sudden irritation, Shiori took Ando and Sumiko in each of her hands and began to drag them up to his room with an annoying sense of confidence, like _she _owned the house and was giving her friends the grand tour. Yukimura angled his body down at them, and he said in a firm voice, "Shiori-san, I really don't appreciate you doing this."

Shiori faltered at the sight of his eyes, his smile, which were both more ethereal than human. He had whipped them out, assets they were, faster than the _swip_ of a switchblade. Enveloped within her surprise, Shiori stepped back onto Sumiko's toes. Both girls gave a small squeak, but it was Sumiko who fell backwards.

The moment seemed to last an infinity and a millisecond at the same time.

Yukimura saw his sister twist around and trip over her feet, saw her begin to fall forward. He blinked and Sumiko was a crumpled doll before him, twisted at the bottom of the staircase.

Shiori gasped, hands over her mouth and muffling her words. Yukimura probably would have heard her apologize if he tried to listen.

He didn't.

Sumiko released a high-pitched, keening wail. Her finger fluttered over her ankle, and it took Yukimura a few seconds to realize the uncanny angle it was twisted at.

"Bitch!" Sumiko shrilled accusingly, suddenly all fire and lightning. Her onyx eyes looked like they wanted to burn a hole through Shiori, to start a fire in the girl and watch her burn.

Yukimura called out, "Okaa-san." He shoved past Shiori and knelt next to Sumiko. "Shh…shh," he murmured to her as he made circles on her back.

Sumiko's eyes were on her ankle now. It had begun taking on a red throb, a lump where the bone had been displaced beginning to show. Her palms were tensed beside her, pressed against the floor until the blood had drained from her fingers, her lips pressed into a thin line. The only color about her was her ankle and the brightness of her apparel.

Ryoko laid a firm hand on Yukimura's shoulder, which he took as a cue to move aside. "Okaa-san," Sumiko croaked, her words tinged with effort.

Ryoko stared into Sumiko's eyes. "Does it hurt badly?"

Sumiko bit her lip so hard she drew blood. She shook her head. Her eyes were bloodshot with unshed tears.

"Okay," Ryoko murmured, "Okay." She said, without looking up, "Get an ice pack."

This was directed at Yukimura, but she showed no sign of this. Ryoko continued smoothing over Sumiko's hair, hand gripping Sumiko's tightly, and murmuring quiet assurances to her.

Yukimura stood up and did as he was told. He grabbed a Ziploc bag from the kitchen and filled it with ice and cold water. He felt strangely detached from his anger, an out-of-body experience, unfeeling. And Yukimura knew plenty about not feeling.

A quiet shuffle came from behind him and he whirled around. The anger came rushing back.

"What do you want?"

Ando stood in the doorway before him, her hands laced in front of her, heels rocking back and forth hesitantly. She looked back over her shoulder at Shiori, and the other girl gave a cool _whatever_ nod and waved vaguely, as though gesturing for her to go aheah.

Ando began, "Um…" and then stopped and bit her lip.

Yukimura regarded her coolly, even raising an eyebrow to express his disinterest. He said, "You'll have to excuse me, if there isn't anything." He snatched the ice pack off the counter and moved gracefully past her.

Shiori scoffed as he walked by without acknowledging her. She swung her head to look out the window. Her expression revealed a mixture of amusement and acceptance, as though his actions had demonstrated something she had already suspected from him.

Ando trailed out of the kitchen after him and murmured to Shiori, "I was gonna apologize."

"Entitled people like him wouldn't have accepted it anyway, Ando," Shiori replied in a stage whisper.

_Entitled?_ Yukimura wondered, before pushing the though from his mind for the moment.

"Here," he said as he pressed the ice pack to Sumiko's ankle, firmly but gently.

"Yeah, yeah, get here soon," Ryoko was saying. She hung up when Yukimura arrived and held the phone to her shoulder. "Your father will be here soon," she told him.

Yukimura looked at her. She was still dressed in her afternoon clothes, the kind of things someone with a fever would wear for the comfort. Her hair stuck out from being smoothed back so much and her face looked ten times more tired than it had this morning. _This is how a mother ages,_ he thought, and vowed to himself to never worry her again if he could help it.

Behind her, Ando and Shiori had reached a conclusion to their hushed conversation. Shiori raised her voice and announced, "Ando and I will be leaving now, Yukimura-san."

"Huh?" Ryoko turned. Her face changed to something foreign and accusing when she turned around. "Yeah, you should," she said icily.

Shiori and Ando stepped into their shoes and opened the door. Shiori left first, but Ando waited a second longer by the doorway, one foot out and the other in. She finally said, "I_ am_ really sorry."

And the door slammed shut.

Yukimura sighed and kneaded his temples. Ryoko sat down beside him and he leaned into her for a brief moment. She pressed a kiss to his matted hair. "Is Sumiko gonna be okay?" he murmured.

Ryoko sighed. Her head fell against Yukimura's shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, she will be."

She looked down at Sumiko, whose head was resting on a throw pillow, and smiled. "Besides, young lady, we need to talk about when you started cussing."

Sumiko smiled sheepishly through her pain.

~x~

"Yasuo-kun, how's life in Kanagawa?" Ayami's face lagged on the screen of his computer, catching her in a grainy half-smile, mouth still partly opened.

Yasuo replied, smirking, "Kinda terrible. I wish you were here." Her answering smile was so warm and palpable in the way it seemed to envelope him, he almost reached out with a hand to trace her face on the screen, but remembered that this was only a version of Ayami, a puppet speaking her words.

_And dear God_, he wished it wasn't. Ayami had moved away with the rest of his friends last year, with the promise that she'd be back for the third year of high school. She told him it was because she wouldn't be able to stay away from him for more than three years, but Yasuo knew the real reason was Rikkai's prestige and high academic standards. Anyone whose college application could boast straight As in Rikkai Dai's rigorous academic department was bound to get into a good college.

He heard a hollow _thunk_ from downstairs and tipped down the screen of his computer, glancing anxiously at his open door. "Just a second." He leaped from the bed and closed his door. "Okay."

"Was that your parents?" Ayami asked when he returned. Yasuo winced. "They still don't approve of us, do they?"

"Well, I mean, they've made peace with the idea—"

"Yasuo?" came his mother's voice from the living room. "What are you doing?"

Yasuo replied quickly, "Homework."

"Yasuo-kun!" Ayami whisper-shouted. "Don't _lie—_"

The floorboards creaked as Yasuo's mother climbed the stairs to his room.

Yasuo's face folded up as he IMed a quick _sorry, I'll be back_ and shut his laptop. He pulled up a textbook over it and flipped to the first quarter of the book.

A second later, his mother opened the door. She scanned the room for a moment, before her stern features melted into fondness at the sight of him. "My little boy," she sighed wistfully, coming to sit at the side of his bed. Yasuo held his breath and smiled back.

"How was the gala?" he asked. "You're back early.

His mother sighed. "The daughter of the host got food poisoning. Whole thing was cancelled."

Yasuo nodded. He racked his brain for the last time she had cancelled something on his behalf. There was that time with the popular masquerade. But no, she had hired a nanny. When he'd gotten stomach flu? No, it was only an ephemeral sickness. The time their dog had died? No, Klyde had been "replaceable"; he'd get a new one.

Yasuo was still waiting on said "new one." He doubted he'd ever get it, with his mother's busy social calendar and his tennis practices. Not to mention that she would never waste money on such an uncouth animal.

His mother rubbed her face with both hands. "Anyways," she said, "I'll leave you to your work."

Yasuo dropped his head to his textbook. He felt a light kiss on top his head as she got up from his bed. She stopped at his doorway and looked back. "You were always so hardworking after you and Ayami broke up. I really am sorry it had to be that way," she said. "I really am, Yasuo, and—" She broke off. Her tone firmed. "Yasuo, look at me."

His lifted his eyes from his textbook and fought the urge to glare at her.

Broken leg? No, personal caretaker.

Yasuo shuffled through the rest of his important moments in his head and drew up a blank.

"It was the right choice, Yasuo. You have to understand that. You understand. Right?" And his mother, her voice was almost pleading, almost begging, but not quite, because Hashimoto Yuudai never begged.

She never begged.

Yasuo wished she had begged.

"Yeah, I got it," he muttered, dropping his head back to his textbook.

"Good. We'll have dinner in an hour," Hashimoto said.

Yasuo flipped over on his back without responding. He heard the door _click_ shut a moment later, and lifted his head to make sure it was really closed. It was.

He toyed with the idea of calling Ayami back after dinner. She'd be waiting for him, he knew, waiting well past midnight.

He toyed with the idea, clung onto it.

Let it go.

~x~

"Die…die…die…Diediediediediedie—Shit!"

Akaya kicked the arcade game in anger. _YOU LOSE_ flashed in neon on the screen, announcing his failure.

Akaya dug through his pockets for another coin. Behind him, a boy's voice muttered derisively, "Idiot." Akaya whirled.

Like the voice had first suggested, the person who had spoken was indeed a boy. He was taller than both Akaya and the girl whose hand was wrapped in his. His head was uncut, full of shaggy hair much like Akaya's own. He wore a letter jacket, filled proudly by his broad shoulders and a pair of jeans. All of this told Akaya that the boy was invested in his physical appearances.

The girl behind him looked less so. Despite her and her boy's hands, laced together at the fingers, the girl maintained her own sense of individuality. She stood stock straight and seemed to be purposefully keeping herself from leaning into the boy, as though she refused to melt into another person. She had a more normal look to her as well: a streak of magenta in her brown hair and casual Saturday-morning clothes.

"Ya got a problem with that?" he demanded.

"No," the girl jumped in. "He didn't mean anything by it."

Akaya said dismissively, "Wasn't talking to you." He considered adding a vulgar word at the end, but there was no need. "I was talking to you _boyfriend._"

The girl's eyes sharpened as though he had somehow offended her. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

Akaya blinked. "What?" he said irately.

"That condescending tone," she said. "What d'you mean, _boyfriend_?" She stretched the last word, giving it a sarcastic tinge.

The boy beside her put a hand on her shoulder as she started forward. He murmured calmly in her ear, "Whoa, cool down, Tachibana."

Akaya's eyes snapped back to the girl. "Tachibana?" he murmured under his breath. The name was definitely familiar; it was a year old in his memory but one Fuji Syusuke had made sure he would never forget.

Tachibana Kippei.

He had a little sister, Akaya remembered. He racked his brain for a name but he couldn't come up with anything other than a face.

A face the girl's matched.

"Okay, okay," the girl was saying quietly, turning to the boy beside her. "Fine, let's go." She tugged his hand after her as she began to walk away.

"Oi!" Akaya called after her. "You're Tachibana's little sister, aren't you?"

She looked back over her shoulder. "Yep. And you're Kirihara Akaya."

Akaya stopped. He rolled his eyes at the change in attitude and snorted.

Akaya turned back to his game and stuck two coins into the slot.

Tachibana An, he could now recall, along with the brief sensation of falling and laying twisted at the bottom of the staircase at the Junior Selection Camp. She'd been so obsessed with hating him a year ago, with how he'd beat her brother to a pulp. She had been storm gray eyes and thunderclap words and lightning that crackled off of her.

Akaya smirked. He didn't think he would ever have to see her again.

~x~

Yanagi discreetly looked at the watch on his wrist. There were thirty minutes left in the first half of lunch, thirty more minutes until he could be relieved of poster-pinning duty with Watari, the strange, taciturn student council vice-president.

The student council was arranging a Back-to-School dance for the students. Its members had been given the job of promoting the event by pinning up flyers in the school. They had been paired into teams with a specific day each team was supposed to pin up flyers and at which part of the school. It was all a very organized affair.

Yanagi glanced at his watch again. The minute hand had moved once and the second hand ticked by at a strikingly slow pace. He looked away and tried not to focus on the time.

_An observation: Time went by faster when you weren't looking and crept by at a snail's pace when you were._

Yanagi looked to the side. Watari's profile was comparable to a literal diamond in the rough. Her jaw was hardened and square, her cheekbones cliffs over nearly flat cheeks, making for an unusually angular face. She had dark hair, cropped close to her head in a quirky pixie cut, all tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles.

"How did you come to be vice-president, Watari-san?" he said casually. He stapled the flyer the other girl held up onto a corkboard.

She said simply and without consideration, "Hard work." Her tone was completely neutral. Yanagi got the feeling that she didn't really care what she answered.

Two girls walked by, their voices lowered to hushed whispers as they neared him and Watari. It was strange, Yanagi mused, how keeping secrets was almost second nature for people, and yet they were still not experienced enough at it to monitor their expressions. He supposed there was always a part of people that wanted others to know what they were thinking.

Another pink flyer went up onto a corkboard as Yanagi was thinking this.

"What about you, Yanagi-san?" Watari said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence. "Komura-senpai seems to like you well enough. I suspect you'd need to be a pretty avid disciple to get into her good graces."

Yanagi chuckled. "It's true: she doesn't take to first-years readily, does she?" It was a commonly known fact that Komura despised kids, or really anyone younger than her. She often claimed, in the presence of close friends, that they could "never get a job done correctly."

Yanagi paused and let them fall into silence without answering the question. "I suppose I owe that to my sister."

"Really? Who was your sister?" A hint of interest piqued Watari's tone.

Yanagi didn't answer immediately, reluctant to tell a stranger something personal about him. He silently pinned up a flyer, then another.

"It was just a question," Watari grumbled. She tossed her hair behind her. "Whatever. You can keep it to yourself. I get it."

Yanagi carried the silence on his shoulders. He wondered what had brought on this bout of need for conversation from Watari. Maybe she was bored, or perhaps she felt bad for being so curt with him earlier.

Yanagi reminded himself to add more to Watari's page in his notebook.

He subconsciously reached for his watch with his other hand and had to remind himself not to. Niou claimed that he always adjusted his wristwatch when he was lost in thought. It was something Yanagi had never noticed about himself, but then again, Niou had a penchant for noticing things that others didn't. He was usually as perceptive as Yanagi, and sometimes even more.

"I hear you play tennis," Watari said.

"I do," Yanagi acknowledged. He thought, _Isn't that what it always comes down to? Tennis?_ Sometimes Yanagi wished that his only defining factor to outsiders wasn't being apart of a match set: the Three Demons of Rikkai. When people referred to him as "the Master" and Yukimura as "the Child of God" and Genichirou as "the Emperor," it sounded to him like the names of dolls, collectors' items. And Yanagi didn't want to end up as just another collectors' item.

But then he reminded himself that would never have met Yukimura and Genichirou, who were both interesting in their own right, and decided that it was worth it.

"You any good? I heard you were part of that middle school team who won Nationals twice."

"It looks like you already know everything worth knowing about me," Yanagi said, catching her eyes.

"I highly doubt that." Watari shook her head. "But don't worry: I will." She flashed him a small smile, and despite the confidence behind the action, it seemed rather shy.

Yanagi wondered at the irony in that joke. Knowing everything about someone who was supposed to know everything. The thought made him laugh.

They finished the remainder of the flyers and headed back to the student council room. Yanagi looked at his watch. Nearly twenty-five minutes had passed them by. The first half of lunch was nearly over.

Watari stopped them outside the student council room with a perfunctory glance over her shoulder at Yukimura and Genichirou waiting for him. She said lightly, "It looks like your friends are waiting for you. So, I'll bring the stapler gun in."

Yanagi acknowledged them with a dip of his head. "Thanks," he said to Watari, handing her the tool.

She went into the classroom, leaving the three of them in the hallway.

"Ready?" Yukimura said.

"Just let me get my lunch," Yanagi replied, beginning to walk in the direction of his locker.

"Who was that?" Yukimura asked as he fell into step on one side of Yanagi and Genichirou on the other.

Yanagi shrugged. He said, "Just some girl."

Yukimura and Genichirou exchanged a glance. Yanagi smiled to himself. His friends were seeing drama in all the wrong places.

~x~

"Er…Yagyuu-kun?"

Yagyuu motioned for Niou to slow down. Niou smirked at him and continued on his way. "Kukaku-san?" Yagyuu said, phone to his ear. "What's wrong?"

She was silent from the other end. Yagyuu could sense the wheels inside her head turning, and she was hesitating. She used to never hesitate.

He thought back to the last time he had seen her. It had been at a New Year's Eve party two years ago. Back then she had been a charming young woman, hiding scars and half-moons beneath fair skin and rosy cheeks, practically charming the shit out of possible business associates all night long.

The only time they had spoken that evening was when he'd seen her trying to reach for a wine bottle set just a breadth too high. Yanagi had asked, "D'you need help?"

She had moved aside complacently, chewing on her lower lip like it was gum. As he handed the bottle to her, her entire posture had withered. She had been unable to meet his eyes, and when she walked away, Yanagi had noticed that she glowed a little dimmer and her shoulders had slumped in defeat.

Traveling backward even farther, he reminisced the two years he had known her in preschool. She had been the kind of person who constantly asked for help, and Yanagi had been happy to offer his helping, but limited, handed. They'd been as good friends as two proper, young children could learn to be.

Yagyuu could tell something had changed. Kukaku had changed.

Kukaku took a breath and said in a flurry, "I'm really sorry to bother you…but, I missed my stop on the bus and—I'm sort of lost."

"Alright, where are you?" Yagyuu asked. He was supposed to help her get around Kanagawa for a while after she got back. "I'll pick you up."

"No, no!" she cried into the phone, sounding horrified. "Don't, Yagyuu-kun. You have tennis practice." She paused and said in a hushed, deflated murmur, "I'll call someone else." She sounded like she had two years ago, when she'd murmured, "I'm sorry to trouble you."

Yagyuu didn't know who else she could call, being new to Rikkai Dai and all. "It's no trouble at all," he said.

Kukaku was quiet for a brief moment. "No, no," she said after a stretch. "Never mind. Thanks." She hung up.

~x~

Sanada pulled his hat lower on his head and tucked his hands into his pocket to fish for his phone. He came upon a few scraps of paper and a gum wrapper before meeting the sleek metal armor of his cell phone. There was a new text from Houshigawa Aella on the screen: _School sucks XP_

Sanada's stomach fluttered like a butterfly just waking up, and he didn't know why. He ignored it, as he often did with things involving objects of the heart. _Is that so?_ he replied.

He scrolled through his texts, checking for ones he hadn't read. Most of them were from Aella, a mild sprinkling of messages from Yanagi and Yukimura oddly sparse compared to hers. Abruptly, he wondered when he and Houshigawa had become so close.

Another small red _1_ icon appeared by the side of his messages app. From Aella: _Yes. I wish I hadn't moved away from Rikkai_.

But she had, Sanada mused, after only a year of going there in her third year of middle school. Tuition bills had gotten harder to pay after her aunt had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and Aella had transferred to a public school.

Another _1_ icon appeared. _Oh, bye. Homework. We're still on for Sunday, right?_

_Yeah,_ Sanada replied. Again, something fluttered in his stomach.

Sanada tucked his phone back into his pocket and exited the bus at the next stop, walking beside with head down as it accelerated past him, headlights glaring. He felt strangely excited. Again, he didn't know why.

~x~

Kukaku Naomi clung tighter to the strap of her school bag as she rounded a corner on an empty block. She had tried to stay near the more populated areas for the better part of the afternoon, but the streets had emptied around dinnertime. She had no doubt they would repopulate later in the night, but she hoped she wouldn't have stayed out long enough to experience it.

She rubbed at the ghosts beneath her eyes, wishing she hadn't fallen asleep and missed her stop. The faint buzz of electricity faltered for a brief moment as the streetlight above her flickered. She passed by a hooded figure standing in a dark stretch between two lights. She tensed.

Naomi heard a _crack_, and her nails dug into her palms as sweat broke out on her neck. She itched to look back, but her fear of seeing something following her kept her from turning around.

Another _crack_ from behind her.

Naomi burst forward in a run, which was awfully hard in a skirt and the restricting maroon blazer Rikkai students wore. Everything else became quickly inaudible in comparison to her loud breathing, and the pounding fever in her head pulsed to each beat of her heart.

Another corner she rounded and a hand clamped around her mouth, muffling her squeal. The person spun her 'round and relief flooded through her at the familiar, albeit cold, face.

Niou Masaharu stood in front of her, one hand over her mouth and nose and the other keeping her from running away. Naomi's chest still heaved, though now it was mostly because of her asthma.

His lip twitched up. "Calm, now?"

Naomi wheezed, whistles in her throat. Ripping herself away from him without much effort, she bent forward, hands on her knees, and fumbled for her inhaler in her pocket. She drew it out and puffed on it twice.

When she looked up, Niou was gazing down at her with an aloofness about him that made Naomi want to rise to her full height.

"So, you didn't find your way back." It was a mere observation, and Naomi realized that Yagyuu must have told him about her predicament, that he and Niou must have laughed at her with the same amusement in Niou's eyes now.

Embarrassment flooded through her, but it was still better than feeling like she was troubling anyone. At least this way she wouldn't feel so needy and dependent.

"Well," she said, meeting his eyes indignantly, "what are _you_ doing out here, Niou-kun?"

"Looking for you, obviously," he said. He began walking down the street.

Niou obviously didn't care if she followed or not, but Naomi—Naomi did, because she was hopelessly lost and he seemed to know where he was going. As she hurried to catch up, she dared a glance behind her. The person she'd been so sure had been chasing her (though now she wondered if it wasn't her imagination) had disappeared.

"Really?" she asked, trotting beside him. A part of her—a _very small_ part—was glad to be important enough for him to look for, and the rest of her slapped herself for calling Yagyuu and for troubling Niou.

He looked down at her. Drawled, "Does it look like I have time to look for lost little girls?"

Naomi's eyes dropped to the pavement. She counted one, two, three cracks on the sidewalk before she said, "You don't have to be so harsh."

(She really wanted to say, _I'm not a little girl._)

Naomi looked at him. "And, not that I don't appreciate you helping me, but _why_ are you helping me?"

"Would you prefer I didn't?"

"No," Naomi said, glancing away, "but you don't seem like the type."

"So, what is the type, then?" he said, and stopped. He slid lazily into a hipshot position, the disinterest in his stance a study in jade.

Naomi forced her back straight. "Can we keep on going?" She twisted her hands behind her back.

Niou's eyes glinted in the amber glow of the streetlight. They were cold and sharp and unnervingly beautiful, like how a scythe was beautiful or icicles sharpened and hanging over a doorway. Something you would rather admire from afar. He scanned their surroundings lazily, as though for the very first time. "No. So, what is 'the type'?"

Naomi pushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen from behind her ear. "But where are we, anyway?" she demanded, stomping her feet. "Stopping like this could be dangerous," she added softly, but as she looked around her, she realized that the street they were on looked oddly familiar.

He raised an eyebrow at her. She got the message—_So what?_

"What?" she snapped, as she flung her arms away from her body. "Offended? You just don't seem like the helpful type, okay?"

Niou made a chuckling sound deep in his throat, but he didn't smile. "C'mon, I'm taking you to your apartment," he said. He began to walk down the street again, turning at a familiar landmark into a line of apartment buildings. He stopped at Naomi's and turned to her expectantly.

Naomi frowned. "How do you know here I live?"

"Hiroshi told me," Niou said. He didn't elaborate. Naomi wondered why Yagyuu-kun would tell him, this _delinquent_ of a boy, where she lived. Wondered why Niou would help her in the first place.

But she just said, "Oh." And then, "Thank you." She looked at him, but he wasn't looking at her. "Um…how will you get back? To your house, I mean."

Niou regarded her with a cynical gaze, but that wasn't why Naomi felt annoyed just then. It was because the gaze, how he stood, the entire blankness of him, was like yeast—it made her puff up and want to be bigger than what she was, fill up more space. It made her want to _impress_ him.

"Just make sure you don't get lost on the way up," he drawled.

"Oh, okay." Naomi struggled for the right words, couldn't find them, and gave up. "I'll just be going now," she said, backing up the stairs, her eyes on him. "I—…" _really hope I haven't troubled you_, she wanted to say, but—

She had, she realized. She had done it again.

_(Naomi, please, give us a break—)_

And he still wasn't looking back.

Naomi closed her mouth and stomped up the stairs.

_(You're so damn needy, Naomi!)_

_(God, Naomi, when are you gonna learn how to take care of yourself!)_

Her breath was coming in short gasps by the time she reached her door. She fumbled with her keys and let herself in. She threw her back against the door and slide down its smooth surface, trembling violently.

_I'm not a little girl…_

~x~

Jackal mopped up the sweat staining his forehead with a towel and gulped down the last of the water from his bottle. His head was shiny from sweat and his jersey stuck to his back. "Nice game, dude," some of his teammates said as they passed him, clapping him on the back.

"Thanks," he said. He went into the locker room and devoted most of his time to finding his clothes. He dug them out from under his towel, shampoo bottles (Marui had a wicked sense of humor), and the tennis items he'd forgotten to switch out at home. He stuffed his basketball jersey into his duffel bag, which he slung around his shoulder as he exited.

"Here." He blinked at the energy drink shoved into his line of vision.

The person who had brought it to him smiled encouragingly. She was shorter than him but still taller than average, coming up to Jackal's shoulder.

"Thank you," he said, a hint of a question in his tone as he took it in his hands and untwisted the cap.

"No problem," the girl told him, tucking her hands back into her green-gray cargo pants. She shrugged her shoulders and began walking out of the gym slowly, clearly intending for him to follow.

"You were really good out there," she told him, as she walked toward a vending machine. She pulled out a few yen from one of her twenty-or-so pockets and stuck them into the slot, punching a letter-number combination. "I wish I could play basketball like that."

"Well," Jackal began, "I do have the height for it." He smiled.

He had started playing basketball at the local gym a few months ago, sometime between the start of this school year and the end of the last. His parents had suggested it as a distraction when his old coach had died. "Something other than tennis to take your mind off him," they had put it.

With his height and natural athleticism, it wasn't surprising that Jackal had climbed through the ranks rather quickly, and despite the unconventional way he'd gotten into the game, Jackal was considering trying out for the basketball team if he didn't make regulars.

The girl asked, "Jackal Kuwahara, right?" She kept her eyes trained on him as she bent down to pick up the Pop-tart. "Nakamura Ayumu." She held out her hand for him to shake. Her grip was callous and hard when her took her hand in his. He could feel his callouses scraping against hers before he let go.

She sat down on the seat in the gym lobby. "I've been watching you play for a while now." She laughed. "Like a fan, I guess." She fingered the Pop-tart package, whacking it against her hand, but didn't rip it open. "You've improved a lot. I even heard the coach say he planned on recruiting you for the Senior Men's Basketball Team."

They were both silent for a moment. "You're not saying anything," she said, turning to him accusingly. In truth, Jackal had been in shock; he knew that his height gave him an advantage, but he had never thought of himself as ever having any particular skill in the sport. "It's a big honor, you know."

"Yeah," Jackal said hurriedly. "I know."

Nakamura smiled kindly and giggled.

"Hey, Ayumu, you have to hurry up if you still want me to play a game with you when we get home," the voice of Nakamura Kuroda, one of Jackal's friends on the team, called, transitioning from muffled to unpleasantly clear as he stepped out of the locker room.

"'Kay, Nii-san," Nakamura said calmly back. She turned to Jackal. "Hey, you should give me your number."

Jackal blinked once, twice, and—was she hitting on him? He looked at her face: brown eyes, brown hair with caramel highlights…and completely earnest. Jackal knew flirting (he'd gotten his fair share in middle school), and this wasn't it.

"Don't worry, I just wanna hang out," Nakamura said, confirming his thoughts. "You seem pretty cool."

"Okay," Jackal said. "You seem pretty cool, too." He recited his number to her as she put it into her phone.

"'Kay," she said. "I gotta go, but I'll call you." She got up and shouldered her tan messenger bag. "I'm coming, Nii-san!" she said.

"Later," Jackal said, feeling confused by his actions.

_Did I just give a stranger my phone number?_

~x~

School began normally the next day. Until:

"Hey!" a voice shouted. "The regular postings are up!"

* * *

><p>AN: I'm and truly, truly, truly sorry for the slow update and the shorter-than usual chapter. I promise to try and get the next one out faster. I promise, I am.

On another note, my writing style has undergone an identity change. If you noticed, it's different now, inspired by Maggie Stiefvater and Patrick Ness's two distinctly different styles. Read their books: _The Scorpio Races _and _The Raven Cycle _by Maggia Stiefvate and _The Chaos Walking Trilogy _by Patrick Ness. I promise, you won't regret it.

Anyway, I hope you guys find my work easier to read now.

Disclaimer: I don't own the lyrics at the top, which are from _Oblivion_ by Bastille.


	6. We've Got A Mess on Our Hands

A/N: I feel relatively happy with myself for updating within a month. If you spot any spelling mistakes, please review or PM me immediately. If I spend another second proofreading this, I am going to change the whole thing.

* * *

><p><strong>We've Got A Mess on Our Hands<strong>

…

"_Find it hard to tell you_

_I find it hard to take_

_When people run in circles_

_It's a very, very mad world…"_

…

Makoto pursed his lips and a long, smooth whistle slid out. "Tennis is awfully popular, isn't it?" he said to himself.

Beside him, Koichi snorted but said nothing.

Makoto ignored this, of course. His and Koichi's personalities tended to scrape against each other like two knives, discordant and chromatic, the kind of sharp that didn't wear down and never stopped; they made people grit their teeth when they fought, he and Koichi did. To prevent this, they had an established system: they kept their opinions to themselves, behaved like professionals in the field of maturity, and this kept them from clashing too often.

An amused twinkle danced in his eyes as he gazed upon the crowd gathering around the rankings. Most of the boys looked relatively happy with their results, walking away with good-natured shrugs, while others wore their disappointment in the trace of their scowls and wrinkles on their foreheads.

Makoto's eyes sought out the important characters in the crowd: there was the Big Three and all the regulars from the middle school, and then there was Yuudai Yasuo, who had been a wild card from the moment he stepped onto the court for his match with Marui Bunta. They were found in small clusters, enveloped in their own little bubbles, oblivious to what was around them. Yasuo was the only one who blended in, ordinary in his anger and inability to control it.

Every single one of them had made it to the top tens of the rankings. The only problem had been finding the right combination for the upcoming Prelims. Makoto, Koichi, and their club advisor, Takashi, had emailed back and forth for long hours during the weekend. They'd finally reached a conclusion, a compromise of their three different opinions.

Koichi smoothed back his blond hair again, the movement drawing Makoto's gaze to him. This was a sure-fire sign that he was nervous or distressed in any way.

Makoto asked, "Are you having doubts?"

Koichi shook his head in reply. Following his gaze, Makoto sought out Yuudai Yasuo, an angry figure practically tearing across campus and up the stairs, spewing grass in his wake. Koichi's expression, however tame, betrayed his concern for the Yuudai boy in the deep wrinkles between his brow and the set shape of his jaw.

Makoto, in a preening tone, for he knew how much it bothered Koichi when he did so, said, "_I_ think we have a pretty strong team."

Koichi snapped, "I didn't say I thought we didn't." His eyes had turned on Makoto. Anyone else probably would have flinched under that iron gaze, but Makoto remained unruffled.

These two knives were equally sharp, but in different ways.

The crowd began to thin as quickly as it had gathered. Makoto, tired of watching the boys react to the postings, clapped a hand on Koichi's shoulder. "Well," he said, "I'll be going now."

"Whatever," Koichi grunted, throwing the hand off.

Makoto laughed good-naturedly and headed to his class.

Perhaps—perhaps they weren't _equally_ sharp.

~x~

Koichi and Makoto had always been two sides of the same coin, both incredibly ambitious but with different ways of achieving their ambitions. They shared the same heat, but while Koichi's was pure fire, molten lava at the core, Makoto's was dry ice, the kind of thing that burned with cold.

In their second year of middle school, both untamed boys had butted heads during the ranking matches. They'd exchanged blows all afternoon, fire against ice, unrelenting and destructive. They were something magnificent, rare, beautiful creatures, practically monsters in their own right.

Takashi shook his head, gazing out of the glass wall on the third floor of Rikkai Dai high school. Koichi stood against the fence of a tennis court. Even from here, Takashi saw the anger behind that stone mask.

Takashi couldn't quite pinpoint when Koichi had started hating Makoto, nor when Makoto had decided that it was _fun_ to rub the other boy the wrong way. Whatever the cause, it made them an interesting pair, forces to be reckoned with on the singles court, natural disasters on doubles.

"Takashi-san, good morning," Furobu Kunami greeted as she walked into the room. She traced Takashi's gaze out the window to the tennis court and smirked. "Are your boys ready? My girls certainly are."

Takashi set aside his papers and folded his hands in front of him, a nice, neutral gesture. "Ah—Good morning to you too, Furobu-san. And, yes, we have a strong team for this season."

"Yes, you do, don't you? The Big Three are here this year. They'll definitely lead the team to a victory, _yes_?" This last word was emphasized with a pointed gaze at him, like a hint he was supposed to take.

Furobu Kunami's eyes were a beauty, as always, Takashi thought. They were rare gems, jewels to be collected and polished and put on display. The kind of useful beauty the world often misplaced in a box of interesting trinkets. Except these were eyes, sharp, cold, omniscient, and Takashi wanted to do with them what all humans liked to do to beautiful things:

Break them.

Takashi's shrug revealed nothing. "The path to victory is a team effort, Furobu-san," he reminded her.

"Yes," she agreed, "of course."

The bell rang for school to start. Both teachers looked up and shared a cursory chuckle.

Furobu snatched her coffee from Takashi's desk and stood up. "Have a good day, Takashi-san."

"You too," Takashi said, rolling his eyes as she turned her back. "I'll email you about a practice schedule for our two teams tonight."

The door to his classroom slammed shut as Furobu walked out without a reply.

~x~

"I can't believe it," Marui said.

Jackal couldn't either, but he hadn't been as upset with the rankings as he had initially thought. He supposed he owed it partly to basketball.

Jackal glanced at Marui, feeling righteously upset for him, and wished he could say something, tell him _Hey, it's okay, I have a backup._ But that meant mentioning basketball, and only God knew how mad Marui would be if he found out.

Jackal's thoughts, already on the subject of basketball, strayed to Nakamura Ayumu. His hand clenched around his phone, itching to pull it out and check for a text message. Even though she had asked him for his number the night before, there had been no word from her.

He was being ridiculous, of course. However, Nakamura, like her brother, was fun to be around. She had the kind of charisma Yukimura had and Jackal failed to see in anyone else. She had a quality that he wanted but couldn't have.

"—I'm mean, you crushed all the brats in your group," Marui was raving. He turned to Jackal, and didn't miss the lack of attention from his friend. "Hey, hey, aren't you listening?"

Jackal said, "Yeah, it's no big deal."

Marui rolled his eyes. "How are you not upset? You're in ninth."

Jackal shrugged. He probably should be, but he couldn't find the energy in himself to act like he hadn't already suspected something along the same lines. He always knew he wasn't the best at tennis, and that was okay. Jackal wasn't unreasonable. As long as he played to his best and worked hard, he felt satisfied.

"Do you know what this means?" Marui said. "Never mind. Rhetorical question. It means you probably won't be chosen as a regular."

"Yes, I know," Jackal replied calmly.

"And you're okay with it?"

Jackal pushed his tongue against his teeth in consideration. _Was_ he okay with it? "Yes," he tested out. The word sounded right in the air. So, he continued, "Yes, I'm okay with it."

Marui shrugged. "Well, whatever. If you're okay with it. I'm only thinking of you."

In that moment, Jackal was extremely thankful to have moved to Japan and chosen Rikkai as his middle school all those years before. If he hadn't, he would never have met Marui Bunta. He smiled.

"Jackal?" Marui was calling. He swiped his hands in front of Jackal's eyes in a windshield wiper motion. Jackal's eyes refocused on Marui like the lens of a camera. Marui rolled his eyes and shrugged his hands into his pockets. "Jesus, man, you've gotta stop zoning out on me like that," he said exasperatedly. "If you get run over by a bus, I am not risking my life to save your sorry little ass."

"I don't expect you to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Marui protested.

They caught the attention of a teacher as they walked by a classroom. "Boys," he admonished firmly.

Jackal ducked his head and said, "Sorry, sensei. We'll be quiet."

They heard him mutter "You better" as they walked away.

The walked along in silence for a while before Marui said, "So, we're still gonna dominate middle school, right?"

He worded the question lightly, like how one would ask if they were still going to take over the world. More of a joke than an actual asking. But the question still weighed heavily on Jackal's shoulders.

_Would they?_ Jackal wondered. Would _he_?

Jackal wasn't so sure.

~x~

"How's your sister, Seiichi?" Renji asked as Yukimura took a seat at the circular table nearest to the window. He felt some of his peers from school pause in their actions and consider him, consider his reaction to ranking third on the tennis team. Yukimura made sure not to give them anything to assume.

Yukimura replied, "She's doing well. First day of school flew by without a bump."

Sumiko had gotten home from the hospital on Sunday afternoon and had insisted upon going to school the very next day. Yukimura had remarked to Renji and Genichirou just the day before, "I don't understand why she can't be like most girls her age and use this as an excuse to take a day off."

"She get's it from you," Renji had said.

"She's keeping up with school?" Sanada said. He had been Sumiko's tutor in the fifth grade—a piece of history Sumiko wasn't eager to remember or repeat—and the effects had yet to wear off. Yukimura doubted they ever would.

"Mostly As and some Bs," Yukimura told him.

Sanada made an approving sound in the back of his throat.

"Renji, will you check this?" Yukimura asked as he pulled out his math homework and handed it to the other boy.

Renji had a pen flipping over and over in his hand as he looked over the paper. Yukimura studied him for a moment, noting the lack of any apparent stress on his forehead. He was no doubt top of his math class. Even the proud Sanada came to him for help, as rare as it was.

Yukimura sat back and scanned the library. The midday sunlight bathed the room in warmth, the kind that made him want to arch his back and curl up with a good book. It revealed the little particles dancing in the air. Yukimura had a distinct memory of thinking the air was dirty when he was a little boy, and of walking around his house with a hospital mask wrapped around his mouth.

Naoko Tsukumu walked into the library. She caught him noticing her and waved briefly at him before turning away. Yukimura waved back, but she didn't seem to notice, already occupied in an animated conversation with one of the librarians.

Raising his head at the exchange, Renji glanced at her and nodded approvingly. "Naoko Tsukumu, right?" he said.

He wasn't really asking, so Yukimura didn't answer. He merely said, "You know her?"

Renji shrugged. "Not well. Our moms were in a book club, so she's been over a few times."

"Oh." Yukimura bobbed his head understandingly. He gestured at his math homework in Renji's hand. "Did I get anything wrong?"

Renji glanced at it for a second. "It'll take me another seven minutes to check it all. You're probably planning on browsing the poetry section soon, so now would be the best time to do it." He phrased this in such a way that left no room for questions.

Yukimura eyeballed the other boy. Renji hadn't raised his eyes at all, so sure that what he said was true. Yukimura sometimes wondered if that was the trick to Renji's omniscience, if sounding sure of yourself and saying things like they were fact was all it took to become a data master. He supposed he would never really know, but it was fun to wonder.

"You like to move when you're thinking," Renji explained suddenly. This time, he met Yukimura's eyes with a joking twinkle in his own.

Yukimura refused to look startled and admit that the other boy had read his mind. He wouldn't give Renji something to be happy about.

Without another word, he pushed his chair away from the table and walked away.

Now that his blood was truly, truly pumping, Yukimura's mind began to spin. His thoughts first went to Sumiko, and then he followed that thread until it snagged on something Shiori had said.

_Entitled people like him wouldn't have accepted it anyway._

Yukimura couldn't understand this. Was he entitled? _He_ didn't think so, but he obviously had a personal bias. That left the question: Did _other people_ think he was entitled?

Yukimura looked over both shoulders, catching some curious looks from other students. It was true, yes, that Yukimura was rather popular. He liked to think, though, that he didn't let the attention get to his head. After all, didn't he acknowledge his peers when they talked to him? Didn't he smile and nod and force his head under the wave of their meaningless chatter? These actions truly demonstrated how very much the opposite of entitled Yukimura was, did it not?

"Ah, Yukimura-san, it's nice to see you again," came from below him.

Yukimura followed the voice to his feet but his eyes were distant. His polite smile flashed on in an instant, as it tended to do in social situations—Yukimura's teachers always did talk about his lovely smile.

A very familiar girl sat at his feet, cross-legged with a poetry book in her lap. Something about the way she sat, _where_ she sat, struck a chord in Yukimura. Yukimura scrambled for her name in his head.

After an awkward silence, the kind one tended not to mention after it was over, Yukimura ended up calling out her name like how one would after finally remembering the name of a book or song: triumphantly. He cringed.

Naoko unfolded herself and stood up. She made an encompassing gesture and said, "We keep meeting in the same way."

They had bumped into each other—not literally, thankfully—in the poetry section of the public library. The bookshelves stretched toward the star-covered ceiling and pressed in upon them. The whole setting seemed to mirror the first time they had met.

Yukimura laughed. "A coincidence, perhaps," he offered.

Naoko said, "Right. Perhaps." She leaned her weight on one leg, hugging her book to her chest. She piped up, "Oh hey—"

At the same time, Yukimura said, "Well—"

They met each other's eyes and laughed lightly. Naoko's ears turned red at the tips and she ducked her head.

"You go first," Yukimura said.

Naoko touched the back of her head hesitantly. "Well, I mean, I wasn't planning on asking you this, but since you seem to like poetry"—she paused and made a sweeping motion with her arm—"I was wondering if you wanted to come to a poetry slam on Saturday night."

Yukimura said, "Like, with you?"

Naoko's eyes shot to his and her cheeks flooded with color. "No, no," she said, waving her hands in front of her. "It's just this thing my church is doing. Like, a fundraiser thing. I just thought you might like it. The thing." She finished with a laugh. "You don't have to tell me right away."

_Church?_ Yukimura thought.

He said, "Thanks for the offer, Naoko-san. I'll think about it."

Naoko smiled. "Yeah. That'd be great." Pulling out a flyer, she handed to him and explained, "Here is all the information you will need. Here's the time, and place, and how much each ticket costs." She pointed to each piece of information on the paper as she got to it.

"Oh." Yukimura felt a little taken aback. "Thanks," he repeated, recovering quickly.

"No problem," Naoko said. She checked her phone and winced. "Ooh, I'm late," she whispered. She looked up at him. "See you later, Yukimura-san," she said, snatching her bag from the ground. "I hope to see you at the poetry slam."

"Mm," said Yukimura, thin-lipped.

He returned looked down at the flyer in his hand after Naoko had gone. It was blue with a wavy border. In the top left corner, _Poetry Slam_ occupied a quarter of the page, with soothing lines that mirrored the wind and music ghosting over the words. The information for the slam was at the bottom left corner and a pair of bongo drums was tilted at a 55-degree angle. Yukimura flipped it over, and on the back was a drawing of a flower.

The corner of Yukimura's lip quirked up. He folded the flyer back up with deliberation and tucked it into his back pocket.

~x~

In all of Yasuo's fifteen years of life, he has never felt as disappointed in himself as he did now.

The sun was shining like a bright tattoo burned into the skin of the sky. The kind that shouted _Hey! I'm here. Look at me, look at me_ to everyone who walked by. Yasuo viewed this as a direct offense to his dark mood. Toeing the crack of a sidewalk, Yasuo remembered something his father used to tell him:

"You're upset? Then take it up with whoever upset you. Don't whine about it! I didn't raise my son to be cowed by others." Then, the great mountain of a man, Yamamura Yuudai, would pat Yasuo's head with his mountainous hands and let Yasuo's tears run down his tree-trunk fingers like rivers.

Yasuo highly doubted he'd be able to take up his issues with the sun, but he grudgingly supposed he could attack the root of his problem. He thought of his ranking on the ranking board from that morning. With Yasuo's performance and the ranking matches, he had not expected to get above fifth place, but the _10_ inked on the paper beside his name had been far from expected.

Yasuo kicked a pebble into the brick wall beside him. He shoved his fingers into the deep recesses of his pockets, shrugging his shoulders up to fend off the cold. The sun disappeared behind a cloud as he looked up into the horizon. This, too, Yasuo viewed as the world going against him.

Yasuo's phone rang in his pocket as he stopped at an intersection and pressed the crosswalk button. The caller ID told him it was from Ayami. Yasuo pressed _Answer_ and held the phone to his ear.

"Yasuo-kun?" Ayami's voice asked from the other end.

"Hey, Ayami. How are you?" Yasuo said, trying to conceal the anger in his voice.

"Oh, I'm fine," Ayami said lightly. "I was just wondering when I should start telling everybody that myboyfriendispartoftheRikkairegulars!" She ended in a squeal.

Yasuo winced. _I'll have to tell her,_ he thought. Then, he realized, _She'll be so disappointed._

"So…tell me all about it," Ayami prompted excitedly. Yasuo could tell she had been waiting all day to call him. He suddenly wished he hadn't told her about when the rankings would be released. "Where are you ranked? Are you gonna play at the Prelims? Oh Yasuo-kun, I'm so happy for you—"

_"Tenth,"_ Yasuo cut her off. The little white figure appeared on the crosswalk sign but Yasuo stayed still.

Ayami was silent from the other end. "What?" she finally said. Her voice was breathy and hushed and disbelieving. Yasuo hated it.

"You heard me," he said bitterly. He said, quieter, "Don't make me say it again."

He could hear Ayami's heavy breathing through the phone. "Yasuo-kun—" She cut herself off as her voice cracked. Yasuo wondered why she was the one who sounded so distressed when it was his disappointment.

"Ayami, why are you crying?"

"I'm not," she said stubbornly. "I'm just…sad. For you."

Yasuo felt like his ribcage had become too small for his fluttering, swelling heart. He suddenly couldn't believe how lucky he was to have Ayami. Right then, even though being apart had been bearable before, Yasuo couldn't stand the distance between Kanagawa and Tokyo.

"Yasuo-kun?" came her small voice. "You still there?"

Yasuo blinked and looked at his phone. He had forgotten that Ayami was still waiting for him.

"Yeah, I'm here. What is it?"

"Do you know if you're still going to play in the Preliminaries?"

The crosswalk sign was counting down from ten in glaring red. Yasuo jogged across the street quickly.

Yasuo shrugged. He reasoned, "I don't know. I don't think so. They're announcing the line-up for this weekend tomorrow. It's probably gonna be the top eight." He stuck the hand that wasn't holding his phone into his pocket.

"Hey," Ayami said gently, "don't give up. You still have the rest of this year plus your second and third year. Then you won't have to compete with the captain and vice-captain."

Yasuo deflated with a sigh. "I know. I just—" _I don't want to finally achieve my goal when everyone good is gone,_ he thought.

"What, Yasuo-kun? I'm listening," Ayami coaxed.

Yasuo sucked in a breath and let it out. He began, "I just expected…_more_ from myself, you know?"

Ayami said, "But Yasuo-kun, you're already enough."

"I know but—" Yasuo bit off, shaking his head. He tore a hand through his hair.

"What?" Ayami asked. Her tone wasn't as gentle as before, carrying an edge this time.

"You wouldn't understand," Yasuo sighed. He veered off of the sidewalk and onto a playground. The sound of ringing laughter and ecstatic screeches of "mama!" and "papa!" filled the air around Yasuo. He immediately relaxed.

Ever since Yasuo had been young, the sound of laughter had always calmed him. Whenever he cried, his father would hold him in the air with a great big smile on his face and tickle Yasuo until he laughed again. Then, the sound of his laughter would do the rest.

"I can _try_ to understand," Ayami pleaded. Her voice sounded strained and tense, like a bowstring pulled back too far.

"No, Ayami, it's okay," Yasuo told her firmly. He fell into a swing and let his feet drag in the sand as he swung. "I have to go now."

"Fine," Ayami replied quickly. She did not sound angry, but the words themselves felt like a little snap, something drawn out too far and let go too quickly.

Yasuo felt the sting behind those words as though Ayami was standing right beside him.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm sorr—"

Ayami hung up.

Yasuo exhaled and slouched in the swing, bringing the phone down from his ear. He cradled it in his hand and bit the inside of his lip.

In a violent motion, Yasuo threw his phone into the sand. It made a crater where it landed, but Yasuo already had his head buried in his hands and he was raging, raging, raging.

And everything was quiet.

~x~

A loud crash came from within an empty classroom.

"What was that?" Takoyo asked.

Kirihara shrugged and veered off course to peek inside. A chair had been tipped over and what looked like the contents of someone's backpack had been emptied onto the floor. Yukimura Sumiko stood, supported by crutches, in the middle of it all, cursing beneath her breath. She raised her eyes to Kirihara at his entrance but otherwise ignored him.

Takoyo whistled long and slow as he, too, absorbed the scene. He said, "Whoa…You need help?"

Yukimura Sumiko rolled her eyes and made a sweeping motion with one of her crutches. "Does it _look_ like I need help? I'm on crutches, for frick's sake," she growled.

Takoyo rolled his eyes and tugged at Kirihara's sleeve. "Let's go," he whispered. He raised his voice and added, "Little Miss Ungrateful has obviously gotten things figured out."

Yukimura Sumiko bit her lip but didn't say anything otherwise.

Kirihara considered his options. He could leave the ungrateful, foul girl to her own devices and run the risk of her running back to her brother; or, he could help her out and rest knowing that Yukimura wouldn't unleash his wrath on Kirihara.

His eyes flickered to Yukimura Sumiko's scowl, the chair tipped over, and the textbooks strewn on the ground. "Go to lunch without me," he told Takoyo.

Kirihara shook his head and set his lunchbox on a desk in the classroom. He marched over to Yukimura Sumiko and righted the chair. As he knelt down to scoop up some of her books, he muttered, "I'm doing this 'cause I respect your brother, not 'cause I'm being nice."

Yukimura Sumiko said in a sharp tone, "What?"

"Never mind," Kirihara said. He stood up and plopped her textbooks onto the desk. "Here. Done."

Yukimura Sumiko was still fixated on what he'd said before. "Did you just talk about _my brother_?" she demanded. "What? That's the only reason you're helping me?"

"Well it certainly wasn't because of your overwhelming politeness," Kirihara growled. He looked away from her.

Yukimura Sumiko made a noise that was halfway between a shriek and a groan. She stuffed her books into the contents of her bag and slung it around her shoulder. "I don't need my brother looking out for me," she said as she swung herself onto her crutches.

"Hey!" Kirihara called after her. "What happened to saying 'thank you'?"

Sumiko turned when she reached the door and said over her shoulder, "What? You want me to thank you for the respect you've given me? Oh, wait, that was for my brother." She aimed a shriveled glare at Kirihara before leaving.

Kirihara stood in the center of the empty classroom, confused and a little annoyed. Finally, he shook his head and gathered his lunch in his hands.

He wondered out loud, "What is _her_ problem?"

~x~

Sumiko gripped the handles on her crutches tightly and released a long, drawn-out sigh through her lips. She wished the little first-year who was supposed to be helping her in Arisa's absence hadn't left her to be with her friends. At least she, Sumiko thought, hadn't been informed enough to know about Sumiko's brother. She had treated Sumiko how she would have treated anyone else.

…Unlike that Kirihara Akaya.

Sumiko pressed her lips into a thin line and closed her eyes for a brief moment. Her crutches felt terribly unsteady beneath her, trembling each time a violent wave of anger came upon her. Her hands tightened around her crutches once more to solidify herself.

_I wish Arisa were here,_ she thought miserably.

Returning to school after breaking her ankle had been a relatively smooth procedure with her best friend at her side. They'd calmly ignored Shiori and Ando together, had politely fended off questions about Sumiko's leg from other girls, and Arisa had always been there to help her get to and from lunch.

It was a tragedy that she had gotten sick today. Sumiko reminded herself to pay Arisa a visit once school was over.

Maybe even before, if it got unbearable enough.

Her phoned beeped with a text from Seiichi. She ignored it. He was probably just checking on how she was.

Sumiko rounded a sharp corner, one of her crutches sliding a little on the tile floor. She slid to the side with a little gasp and stumbled into a boy who was walking by.

"Sorry," she muttered, righting herself immediately.

"I've never seen anybody go that fast on crutches," the boy said humorously. Sumiko met his eyes and smiled a little, the first sign of happiness she had shown all day. He had a scruffy looked about him and there was a loose thread on his blazer. She thought that he was rather cute.

"I'm Miura Mitsueru," he said and held out a hand. "You?"

Sumiko first eyed his hand dubiously. It was calloused and rough. His words didn't register in her head until a second later.

_Wait. He doesn't know me,_ she realized ecstatically.

She said, "Sumiko."

He arched an eyebrow and smirked. "What? No last name?"

"None that you need to know," Sumiko replied.

Miura chuckled. Sumiko found herself fascinated by the sound: it was low and growly and black like gravel. But it didn't sound like gravel; it _felt_ like gravel. She was baffled by the nonsensical comparison, but it made sense in her head.

"All right, _Sumiko-san_," Miura said, leaning in close, "I'd like to get to know you better."

Sumiko found herself blushing. "Okay," she said cautiously, "how do you plan on doing that?"

Miura drew back. He hid a smile behind how he shrugged nonchalantly and inspected his cuticles. "I have my ways," he allowed.

Sumiko snorted.

"It's not lady-like to snort," Miura pointed out.

"Then I'm not lady-like," Sumiko replied.

She decided it was time for her to go on the offense. Smiling coquettishly, she filled the space between them. Voice lowered, lashes fluttering (Arisa always said she was a massive flirt when she wanted to be), Sumiko said, "Well, you could always ask me on a date."

Miura seemed to consider this very hard. He drew his brows together, an action that emphasized the way his forehead overshadowed his eyes. Coming to a decision, a smile appeared on his lips.

"Then, how about today? After school?"

Sumiko drew back. She remembered her plans to visit Arisa after school. After all, Arisa had always done the same for her. However, this boy was asking her out because he liked her, not because he liked Yukimura Sumiko, emphasis on the Yukimura. Sumiko felt like there was something precious about that fact.

She decided, _Arisa can wait._

Barely able to contain her excitement, Sumiko said, "Sure. After school."

* * *

><p>AN: So, when I posted PT Chap. 5, I got some questions regarding if everyone was going to end up with someone. I thought I would just clear this up here: Maybe.

The truth is, I don't know where this story it going to go or how it's going to end. There's just a bunch of moments I know I am going to include. I just have a general idea of what I want it to be like, and trust me, this will not turn into one of those stories where the only goal is for the character and the OC to get together.

So, I hope that got cleared up. If not, just drop a review or PM for more details and I'll provide as much as possible without revealing any of the big stuff.

As always, thanks for reading. I really appreciate it. Hopefully, I can update again within the month :D

Disclaimer: I do not own _Prince of Tennis_ or the lyrics at the top, which are from _Mad World_ by Tears for Fears.


	7. Cause I'm Running From a Warzone

A/N: Maggie Stiefvater's lyrical writing inspired me. If you guys haven't read any of her books, I recommend them. I wish I could write like that.

Just, before you read it, sorry for the mistakes.

* * *

><p>'<strong>Cause I'm Running From a Warzone<strong>

…

"_Sleepwalking down the road_

_Not waking from these dreams_

'_Cause it's never dead, it's still my head_

_It was a warzone in my teens…"_

…

Shiori had seen Yukimura Sumiko the first day she returned to school. She and Ando had approached her and her friend, Arisa Chikamatsu, and Shiori had apologized. Yukimura Sumiko had glared; Arisa Chikamatsu had shot words laced with venom into their skin. Shiori did not try to apologize again.

But that didn't mean she wasn't still guilty.

Shiori's stomach had chewed away at itself since the moment Sumiko fell. She went out of her way to avoid them at all costs, and was doing a very good job at succeeding so far. However, her guilt was only magnified ten-fold when she realized she was also regretful about losing the chance to talk to Yukimura Seiichi again. So, whenever he popped up in conversation, she made a ritual of thinking something nasty about him.

"Are you going to the Kantou Prelim rounds this weekend? Yukimura Seiichi will be there."

The lovely boy with his lovely eyes and lovely smiles was overrated anyway.

Shiori shook her head. "I don't think he would like that," she told her friends. She felt Ando's stare on her forehead, intent and urgent, and Shiori sighed and looked up from her food.

Ando was in the middle of a squabble between her eyebrows and eyes. The surprised arches reached for her hairline at the ends and drew flat and together as they dipped and evened out. Her eyes flitted between Shiori's face and what felt like Shiori's ear.

Shiori touched her hand to the dragonfly earring on her earlobe. She rubbed the gold between her fingers, once because of nerves, and twice because it felt lucky.

Shiori twisted around as Ando added raising and lowering her eyebrows to the routine. She realized what her friend meant when her eyes found the door to the cafeteria. Shiori swallowed nervously. Yukimura Sumiko and Arisa Chikamatsu had just walked through the door with a scruffy-haired boy.

Shiori flashed a smile to the rest of her table and stood up from her seat. "I need to go."

"Me too." Ando leaped up beside her.

"Wait," a boy said, glancing up anxiously. Kaya laid a hand on his, a seemingly innocent gesture, but Shiori suspected there was more going on beneath the table. The boy was Kaya's latest conquest, a desperate little kid who had probably jumped at the chance of "getting it on" with any living thing with breasts. And Kaya had big ones.

"Takada and I will see you around," Kaya said.

Takada would be gone by the end of the day.

The rest of the table gave uncommitted waves. They were used to Shiori and Ando leaving abruptly and without explanation now.

Shiori and Ando gave Sumiko, Arisa, and Scruffy a wide berth as they left the lunchroom. Still, that didn't prevent them earning a sideways glare from Arisa and Sumiko while Scruffy's head was turned. Shiori was beginning to think the world would be taken over by robots before Sumiko forgave her.

"Hold on a sec," Ando said as they passed by a bathroom, piling her lunch tray on top of Shiori's. "Bathroom."

"Wait—" Shiori didn't bother to finish her sentence, because Ando had already gone. "Crap," she muttered under her breath. Ando had placed her tray at the edge of Shiori's, and the only thing preventing the entire thing from falling to the ground was the angle at which she was holding her food.

Several boys passed by, jostling each other by the shoulders and stumbling around like drunken men. Shiori gritted her teeth, wanting one of them to stop and help her without her asking.

None stopped.

Shiori sighed, stomach clenching and twisting into something ugly and dark and jealous.

_(They would have stopped for Kaya, and maybe Ando.)_

But not Shiori.

Everyday, every single day, Shiori felt like she was getting sucked into her loud, outrageous friends: Kaya, who was long-legged and possessed an exotic beauty and caused heads to turn wherever she went; Ando, who was friendly and bubbly and undeniably "cute."

She reminded herself, soon she would leave Rikkai, soon she would be able to reinvent herself. She just had to last it out for another school year, another year of being plain-Jane pretty and wallflower quiet. Her wit wasn't worth much if everybody was too busy gawking at Kaya's inappropriately exposed skin and listening to Ando's bubbly gossip.

The door to the bathroom opened and out strode Ando with a new coat of perfume and generously applied lip-gloss. "All right, I'm back. Thanks, Shiori," she said, lifting her lunch tray off of Shiori's, revealing a squashed mound of rice. Shiori's appetite disappeared.

"Where're we going again?"

"Rooftop."

They headed to the rooftop, lunch trays held precariously before them. Shiori leaned on the door handle, and it pulled open. Shiori stumbled.

"Whoa, sorry," someone said. "Hey, Ando."

Shiori composed her face into a neutral smile. She said politely, "Yeah. Bye."

"Hey, jackass," Ando said as way of greeting.

The boy rolled his eyes and chuckled good-naturedly. They exchanged a few words until he broke it off.

Shiori had taken a seat at their usual rooftop bench and now was picking at her sushi absently. The boy had barely noticed her, even though she'd practically fallen into him. Shiori knew how ridiculous she was being, but still anger brushed her and jerked her along in its hooks like the tail of a string ray. Tears sprang forward; she forced them back.

"Sorry, 'bout that," Ando said, sitting down beside her.

"Who was that?" Shiori asked as she forced a sneer into her voice. Arrogant Shiori, high-maintenance Shiori, bitchy Shiori—that was what she had to be now. Two years ago, Young Shiori wouldn't have cared, but a lot could change in two years. Young Shiori had turned to Present Shiori when she got tired of going unnoticed, when insecurity began eating at her.

"Just my brother's friend." Ando shrugged. "He's annoying."

"Sounds like it," Shiori replied.

She didn't really think so, but replying in such a fashion was expected of her.

Man-hating Shiori, mean Shiori, uptight Shiori.

Really, she was just sad, insecure Shiori.

~x~

"As you all know, this year's ranking matches were dominated by big personalities." Makoto paused as knowing whispers rippled through the crowd. When they quieted, he continued, "As a result, this year's line-up will not be solely based on skill." This time, the crowd of hopefuls exploded into a frenzy of _yes_es and _maybe_s. Makoto didn't mention that most of them probably wouldn't have the chance to play anyway. He waited patiently for the noise to die down and the attention to return to him. "It is a shame that all of this talent should be wasted; therefore, Koichi, Takashi-sensei, and I have decided to base our choices of line-up on compatibility.

"Based on our research of the other team, the line-up for this weekend's District Preliminaries will be: Marui-Niou pair in Doubles Two, Yuudai-Yanagi pair in Doubles One, Jackal Kuwahara in Singles Three, Sanada Genichirou in Singles Two, and Makoto Nobuo, me, in Singles One. Yukimura Seiichi will be our alternate."

As Makoto finished announcing the roster, voices exploded forward in the crowd. He just smiled vaguely and let Takashi take the stage.

The club advisor stepped up and calmed the crowd with an easy smile. "Now, you are all probably wondering why we placed these individuals where we did. And I could spend the rest of practice giving you a detailed account of how each of this team's strengths will play to the other team's weaknesses, but that would be a terrible use of time.

"I want the names on the line-up plus Yagyuu Hiroshi to meet me and Makoto-kun here. The rest of you will run twenty laps around the court with Koichi-kun."

The boys dispersed in various directions, with mumbles being heard throughout the crowd. Eight figures detached themselves from the masses and made their way over.

"Okay, so, what kind of shitty logic is this?" Marui demanded as soon as he was within earshot. "I am _not_ playing doubles with this kid." He crashed his shoulder into Niou's.

"Then you won't play at all," Makoto said.

Marui quieted.

"Anyways," Makoto said, "you all did very well during the ranking matches, and, like I said before, it would be a shame to waste all of this talent. So, from now on, the line-up will be decided among you eight, plus Koichi and I.

"So, after this week, you will be expected to attend all practices throughout the week as well as the three-hour practices on Saturday and Sunday from one to four. You will also visit the doctor's for a complete check-up and physical and receive a tailored diet.

"Be aware that this means collaborating with members of the girls' tennis team and that no dating between teams will be allowed for the regulars."

"But we aren't all regulars," Yuudai interrupted.

"That's right. However, because your guys' skill far exceeds the rest of the club's, you've been granted this title. Think of it like a promotion." Makoto surveyed the faces of the group. They were all unreadable. He said, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," they said as a team.

"Good. Now join Koichi at the track. You eight will run forty laps in the same amount of time it takes for the rest of the team to run twenty."

The eight separated into little groups as soon as they were released: Marui with Jackal, Niou with Yagyuu, the Big Three, and Yasuo happy but alone. Makoto watched them go with a satisfied expression on his face.

"This is the start of an era," he said.

~x~

Yukimura closed the book between his hands with a dull _thump_, blowing particles of dust into the air. Shivers tiptoed up and down his spine and left him with the distinct feeling of something lost, as good poetry often did. The French poets were true artists. Yukimura had once experimented with poetry writing, but all his labors had produced were poorly worded limericks and strung-together couplets that left the reader with an impression that the poems' author had ADHD. Once, he had shown one of his poems to Renji, and after reading a line, the other boy had suggested mildly, "I hope you stick to tennis."

However, the present poem possessed the sort of artistry that illustrated exactly what Yukimura was feeling.

Yukimura often wished he could produce art like this, the kind that made people _feel_ things. Even Niou, with his illusions, was an artist on the tennis court. And even though Yukimura painted, his work, though accurate, lacked emotion.

As for tennis—the magazines called his playing style _beautiful, eerie, unearthly._ Yukimura, though, couldn't forget that his playing style robbed his opponents of feelings, which was exactly the opposite of his goal.

"What are you thinking, Seiichi?" Renji asked. In the presence of Renji, Yukimura felt like every emotion he felt was projected on his face like a colorful tapestry hanging in the least obscure place on Earth. In the presence of Renji, Yukimura's face might as well have been the least obscure place on Earth.

"Just about the new line-up," Yukimura lied. The current arrangement didn't bother him so much; he couldn't be bothered to play in low-key matches like the Preliminaries anyway. The real competition only started when Hyotei, Seigaku, and Shitenhouji entered the scene.

Renji seemed to consider this. He finally said, "Odd pairing, Niou-kun and Bunta-kun."

"They work well together."

"That they do."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the two of them, as what tended to happen when two sensible people ran out of words.

After a while, Renji asked, "Are you going to Tsukumu-chan's poetry slam?" At Yukimura's asking expression, he clarified, "I guessed she would have invited you."

Yukimura didn't think Renji _guessed_ anything. _Calculated_ would have been a more accurate term. Renji rarely made rash assumptions. Was rarely wrong. He avoided wrongness like the plague. This sort of accuracy was illustrated in the way he played tennis. Data Tennis, people called it; Data Master, people called him.

"I don't know," Yukimura said, automatically thinking of his desk, where the flyer lay flattened by a textbook. "Should I?"

"I can't answer that question," Renji replied. "Is there any reason for you to go, specifically?"

"No."

"Then don't."

"But that feels wrong."

"Then go."

Yukimura sighed. Renji's advice was practical like this. "But that feels wrong too."

"Why?" Renji asked.

Yukimura struggled for an answer. "It seems impractical to do something without a reason," he said.

Renji sighed. "You and Genichirou are a study when it comes to extraneous things." He didn't say _You could be good friends_, but Yukimura heard it anyway, and he knew it wasn't possible. He had risked much during his climb to the top. One of them was a potential best friend.

"If I were you, I would go," Renji said. "You like poetry, the people there like poetry. It will be good for you to be among artists. Not so lonely."

"Really?" Yukimura said, confused. But Renji confused sometimes, with his objective point of view and oblique, laconic way of stating his thoughts. Yukimura didn't ask.

"Really."

"Okay."

"Okay."

~x~

Marui walked the edge of his lunchbox with his fingers, and halfway across, he made a breathy _aaahhh_ sound and faked falling into the pile of rice that served as a mountain of bones. The octopi judged him with their tentacles and eyes, not yielding and lacking in absolution. The sushi rolls and onigiri from last night's takeout frowned at him with disapproval for playing with his food.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?" a crude voice sneered on the walk-by. Marui sighed; apparently Hanako Miyumi disapproved, too.

He turned away from his food. She was already walking away from him, the sway of her hips a counterfeit from all of those high school movies about finding oneself. It was haughty and un-tempered and obdurate, and it turned Marui on a little.

He replied, "You know, I thought I'd gotten rid of your pestering when I broke up with you."

Beside him, Jackal sighed with his shoulders.

Marui and Hanako had nursed an on-and-off relationship since they'd started dating. Every fight would end with a _We are _over,_ for good!_ and then two weeks to one month later they would resume dating again. This fight had lasted from spring vacation into the school year with no hint of ever stopping.

But, with Marui and Hanako, something interesting and dramatic was bound to happen soon.

"I can't believe I ever dated her," Marui said to Jackal.

Jackal didn't say he could. When they weren't insulting each other at every chance, Marui and Hanako were blatantly what every person wished for in a relationship. They were both wonderfully passionate people, incredibly tenacious when they wanted to be, and incredible epicures. And despite their tenuous history, they had always gotten back together.

"Right, Jackal?" Marui insisted.

Jackal said, "I dunno. Are you taking anyone to the Back-to-School dance?"

"We're _going_ to that?" Marui asked incredulously, eyebrows arched in Jackal's direction.

Back-to-School dances got boring when you were in your second or third year of school, but for first-years, it signaled their official initiation into the high school scene. Everybody said it was "no big deal" but Jackal understood the social norms at Rikkai enough to catch on to the nuance that it was indeed a big deal.

"I dunno," Jackal repeated. He didn't usually excite over this sort of thing. Hell, the last time he had gone to a school-hosted activity outside of tennis was his middle school graduation.

"Dude, these things are always the lamest dances of the year," Marui complained. "Why, out of all the wonderful chances later on in the year, would you choose this one?"

Jackal shrugged. "I said I wasn't sure."

"Um, translation: _Hell yeah, I'm planning on going!_ Jackal, man, don't do this to me. I don't even have a date."

"You could always bring Hanako-chan."

An ephemeral smile flashed between Marui's ears before it was quickly replaced by a hefty scowl tearing a scar across his face. "I _broke up_ with her," he quickly reminded Jackal.

_And you'll probably get back together again_, Jackal thought. It was the endless cycle of how Marui and Hanako worked. They were anti-hedonists, only able to allow themselves small amounts of pleasure before being driven to ruin it.

But they would get back together again. They always did.

"Jackal, how could you even suggest that?" Marui demanded, throwing his arms about like _What the hell, man?_

"Right, right, it was crazy of me. I forgot. Hey, are you gonna eat that?"

Marui pushed his lunchbox to Jackal, who quickly ate the last onigiri roll to avoid talking. "Besides," said Marui, " why do you wanna go anyway?"

Jackal chewed.

"Is it a girl?"

He was thankful for his excellent poker face.

"It _is_ a girl!"

Jackal swallowed the food in his surprise. Okay, so maybe his poker face wasn't that good. "It is not," he stated indignantly.

But last night, Nakamura Ayumu had called him and asked to meet up. But last night, they had chatted until ten o'clock at a café equidistant from where they both lived. But last night, every moment with her had felt warm and fuzzy and like a roller coaster because his stomach kept on dropping.

Marui got a knowing smile on his face, an asking tone in his voice as he questioned, "Who is she, Jackal? What's her name?"

Jackal was glad that he didn't ask the shallowest question: _Is she hot?_ But he wasn't ready to answer any of those questions, because if would be confirmation that yes, Jackal Kuwahara had met a girl; yes, he had met up with her; and yes, he jumped at every buzz of his phone because it could be her, it could be her, it could be her.

"There was nobody," Jackal said.

Marui said, "But now there is. Who is she? Hey, don't look away."

"Look, she's just someone I met at basketball!" Jackal snapped.

Marui pulled back, his eyebrows narrowed quizzically. "_Basketball_? Don't you mean tennis?"

And Jackal realized, too late, what he had said. He considered correcting himself, telling Marui he had heard wrong—_of course it's tennis, it's always tennis—_but what was the use? He couldn't keep his new hobby a secret forever. Besides, he didn't advocate idiotically keeping secrets to avoid trouble. Jackal was _sensible_. "Yeah, basketball."

"Oh. When did you start?"

"I while ago. When my old coach died."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Jackal said. And now his throat was tightening from the memory, the phone call, the funeral he'd been unable to attend. He asked, "Are you mad?"

Pressing his lips into a straight line, Marui shook his head vigorously. "Nah," he said, and his tone was too convincing to actually convince, "I'm fine. It's just a hobby. Besides, you could teach me. With my height, I could do some really awesome slam dunks."

Jackal laughed.

Then, he frowned and his eyebrows knitted. "Could you not tell the others?" This was phrased with hesitation, as though he wasn't sure about the level of secrecy something like this required.

"Sure thing, man."

The bell rang and they went to their respective classes, Marui walking away, Jackal escaping.

~x~

"I'm home!" Aella called even though there was no one in the house. She checked her phone calls and texts. Most were from her friends back at Rikkai; the rest came from Miyo. Niou had left one text for her, a two week-late response to something she had said a while back. She didn't bother replying to him.

She threw herself onto the couch, which protested under her weight, absently typing short replies to her friends. A _sounds cool_ to Marui as he told her about some hilarious happening at Rikkai that day; _math test?_ to Jackal asking for his grade on a test; _lols_ to Hanako's recounting of how she accidentally bumped into a third-year and spilled milk on her blazer.

Sanada still hadn't replied to their cut-short conversation from last night. Aella ignored this. She'd hardly noticed. Really.

Rereading the text from Marui, Aella thought about all the exciting events transpiring in Rikkai. She felt like all of her friends were moving on without her, like a cavewoman preserved ice, watching as the world changed before her eyes. She muffled her face in a throw pillow with one of Picasso's paintings dyed into the fabric—a cheap knick-knack Miyo had acquired at a garage sale to "brighten up the place"—and hated her new school: _The building is dingy, the lockers smell like rotten eggs, and the uniforms itch,_ she thought. _The people are boring, the teachers are lackluster, and I miss my friends._

Aella missed teasing Kirihara when she saw him in the halls, missed Marui's antics and Jackal's sensibility and how these two traits in these two polar-opposite boys stuck out in harsh relief, missed Niou even though they didn't talk much nowadays. Most of all, she missed Hanako's friendship and Sanada's companionship.

Sanada Genichirou got his own train of thought. Aella missed everything about what they had, because it had been something special. Not _friendship_, because that seemed too shallow of a word; not _love_—as Marui liked to jest—because that was so commonplace; simply _companionship_, for Sanada was always there.

A rumbling started on her stomach at the same time as the screen on her phone lit up. As Aella lifted the phone to her eyes, the rumbling stopped.

It was a text from Hanako. _Are you coming to the Prelims this weekend?_

Aella quickly considered this whilst typing _when is it?_ She had not given the Prelims much thought. The boys on her school's tennis team weren't usually competition compared to the bigger schools like Rikkai, or Hyotei, or Seigaku; as a result, the students at her school didn't get as excited about tennis tournaments.

_Saturday at 1_, Hanako replied.

Aella decided quickly and typed, _Yes_. After all, she had nothing else to do on a Saturday, and she would be meeting Sanada for lunch so—_We can meet up after,_ she added on second thought.

_K :)_

Aella sighed like a punch in the gut. She got up to retrieve a cup of yogurt and settled down at the kitchen table to go over her Japanese homework. (There was a test tomorrow and Aella wasn't very good at Japanese).

Miyo came home not long afterward, back from her new job as an assistant high school teacher. She dropped a bag of groceries on the table, mere inches away from Aella's homework. "Aella, how was school? Never mind, I don't care. Wait 'til you hear what Kiko-san did to Kunami-san today—"

Aella smiled as her sister's drone carried on in the background. She sat back in her seat, observing the flush on Miyo's cheeks and the hearty smile curling up her lips. She grinned back and folded her arms around her chest. "I take it work went well? Although, I don't think _work_ is an adequate word for standing around and gossiping with the students."

"Please, I _work_. I just prefer to…_bond_ with my students."

"Right." Aella rolled her eyes. However, her smile was genuine.

Miyo was happy, life was good and peaceful, and they were finally financially stable, despite their aunt's sickness. Even though Aella missed her old friends and her old life, the tragedies that kept on striking her family seemed to have ended and she felt happy, finally happy.

Aella made a resolution: No matter how down she felt about Rikkai, she wouldn't show it. Life was too good to ruin.

~x~

"Once upon a time, a handsome boy—"

—the girl giggled—

"—met a beautiful girl—"

—even more giggles—

"—in a bar. He asked her if she wanted a drink, and even though she didn't mess with boys, she said yes. So the boy bought her a drink and then another and another, and she downed each in one shot, because the boy didn't know, but she was secretly very lonely and sad."

The doe-eyed girl's petite little lips frowned. She sat into the back of her chair, a finger trailing absently 'round the glass of her drink. "How did you know?" she murmured, words slurring through a drunken haze.

Niou's eyes flashed in the dim lighting, somehow the brightest things in the room. He drawled, "I'm very observant, sweetheart."

"You _are_," The Girl—because Niou hadn't bothered with learning her name, or had forgotten it altogether—giggled. "Like the boy from your story."

"And you…are like the girl from the story."

She swayed in her chair. Contemplatively, she said in a small voice, "You're right…What's your name again? I forgot…"

"That's because I didn't tell you," Niou reminded her, not gently, not harshly.

"But I'm not lonely." Her lips pouted.

Niou maintained his poker face as he sat back from her and surveyed the bar. The door opened, an _err_ sound, and Kukaku Naomi walked in and took a seat at the bar counter. His slow lips parted in a slow smile as he sidled off of the bar chair, The Girl grabbing at his sleeve and calling out "Wait!" like a small child. He slid into the seat beside Kukaku. Lips to her ear, he whispered, "What'll daddy think of you drinking, little girl?"

Kukaku had shivered at the brief physical contact. Now, she was staring at him with wide eyes and a sweat forming on her brow and neck. Niou swept her over with his eyes: she was dressed rather conservatively—ankle-high brown boots, three-quarter jeans, and a tank with a sweater over it.

Which meant she had come here to drink. Perhaps get wasted.

Kukaku blocked her body off to him, showing the bartender a fake ID and ordering a beer.

The bartender gestured at him, a hand reaching beneath the counter. He poured Kukaku a beer, _thunk_ed it down before her. Niou shook his head. "I'll have water."

The bartender stifled a laugh. Nobody sane came to a bar for water.

Kukaku sipped at her beer thoughtlessly. "What d'you want from me?" Her voice was pitiful, small, maybe a little scared. Her eyebrows drew together above her nose, considering, thoughtful. Not a common expression for someone who wanted to get drunk.

Niou smiled. "For me to want something from you, you would first have to have something…desirable." He waved his hand at her casually, a motion more fit for pointing out an amateur painting at a showcase than a sad little girl in a bar. Though, really, there was little difference between the two: they were both poorly put together, possessed an artistic lachrymose, ugly under bad lighting, passable under good.

As she trailed a finger along a line in the wood of the counter, Kukaku bit her lip in a frown. Her hips pivoted left and right on the spinning stool, an irritating habit. "Why are you here?"

"Helping Hiroshi pick up girls."

"What?" Kukaku shot up and looked around the bar. "Are you serious?" she said.

"No."

Kukaku whirled into his face, meeting his eyes square on. Her own burned with an angry passion, unsettlingly familiar. Niou had seen that cigarette glare before: on his mother when she was feeling self-righteous, on his sister when she was feeling angry. He realized after three years of escaping it, how annoying being looked at like an accusation, like he was worthless, was. Holding his gaze, Kukaku slid off of the bar chair and announced:

"I'm going."

Niou mirrored her move, but held her against the counter. "I take it, no one knows you are here."

Scathingly, she replied, "No shit, Sherlock."

"Would you like someone to know you're here?" Niou's mouth drew nearer to her face. Her breath smelled like death; her face looked like secrets. Niou knew what a secret looked like, knew the weight a secret had on a person; he had seen it before, and he could see it now. The only difference from before was that he had actually cared for the person. He didn't give a shit about Kukaku Naomi.

"Nobody would believe you."

"All right. So it won't matter." Niou sat back. Grudgingly, Kukaku sat back, too.

Kukaku asked in a small voice, "Why are you doing this? I want to know."

So Niou told her. He leaned forward, placed his lips by her ear, and told her exactly why he was bothering with her. He told her in three simple words everything he had gathered about her. That she had obligation-borne control over Yagyuu, that she was keeping a secret under a gallon of tears and the weight of months of sleepless nights, and that he thought it a crime that she could act so normal despite this.

She turned away from him, shielding her face behind a curtain of dark hair. "I find you a dickhead," she whispered. She raised her hand and tried to slap Niou across the face, but he caught her wrist just in time. Her jaw dropped in surprise.

Niou flashed her a grin.

She picked her jaw up from the ground and ripped her wrist away. Niou allowed her to. The cigarette glare was back, accusatory and hurt like a wounded animal. "I'm going," Kukaku repeated. "Please don't tell anyone."

Niou smirked. "No promises, princess."

* * *

><p>AN: Hey, so sorry it took longer than normal for me to update this chapter. However, I think chapter eight will be quicker, seeing as I already have half of it written.

Also, I've decided to you my profile as a sort of "blog" for my fics. Usually, if I haven't updated in a while or if an update if taking longer than usual, I will tell you guys on there. So…you know, if I decide to disappear again, check that and there will probably be a reason why.

ALSO, thank you to everyone who reviewed. Your reviews make my day.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Prince of Tennis_, Takeshi Konomi does. The lyrics at the top are from _Cedarwood Road_ by U2.


	8. The Hounds Will Stay in Chains

A/N: Hey, guys. Told you this chapter would be up quickly. Before I forget again, Houshigawa Aella and Hanako Miyumi from the chapter before are OCs from another fic I wrote called _Double Trouble_. That one ended a little prematurely, but they're both in this one.

* * *

><p><strong>The Hounds Will Stay in Chains<strong>

...

"_We live in cities you'll never things see on screen_

_Not very pretty but we sure know how to run free_

_Living in the ruins of the palace within my dreams_

_And you know, we're on each other's team…"_

…

"Hey." Pressed against the bathroom door, Yukimura heard the sound of water starting from the shower. Meaning, he would be stuck waiting for Sumiko for another thirty minutes. Thing is: because of Sumiko's ankle, he had already been waiting on her since eight, and right now it was eight-thirty. "How long do you need?"

Through the bathroom door, Sumiko's voice answered: "As long as I need."

"Thanks. I have a great idea of how long I'll need to wait now." Eyes turned pleadingly to the ceiling, Yukimura at once groaned and pushed his hand through the back of his tangled hair. He trudged back to his room.

From atop the worrying French assignment, Naoko's flyer offered a frustrating decision as well as an excuse to put off working on his French. Yukimura's chair squeaked as he sighed into it and picked up the flyer, eyes skating over the familiar words and patterns. Doing so unlocked uncomfortable indecision and a squirmy feeling in Yukimura's body.

He thought back to the conversation with Renji. _I guess I can go_, he tested out. Since he wasn't left with a gaping feeling of wrongness and discomfort, he took this as a sign that he should go.

"Seiichi, can you ask Sumiko if she's going to your tennis thing today?"

Ryoko said loudly.

"Sumiko, are you coming to the Prelims today?" Yukimura said loudly.

"I dunno, who's going?" Sumiko said loudly.

"I can't tell you the names of everybody planning on attending that tournament."

"Do I have to?"

"Honey, you should be there for your brother." This was Ryoko, as loud as before, but with a sharper edge to her voice.

Sumiko _ugh_ed, and Yukimura heard it as though she were in the same room.

Although he wasn't sure if this statement what be safe for him to utter, he asked, "So you're going then?"

Sumiko growled. "I guess."

Yukimura looked at the invitation, a smile spreading across his face. "I guess I'm going, too," he said softly.

~x~

Tapping his fingers against his napkin, Sanada inspected the little restaurant claiming itself Paolo's Luncheon Lagoon. He was disgusted because a) the little swamp-themed restaurant was more suited for serving snacks than important daily meals, b) the abysmal decorations resembled none of the characteristics of an actual lagoon, and c) the _lagoon_ part of the name was obviously a blatant attempt at alliteration to make the name more memorable. However, Houshigawa had suggested this place since it was equidistant from where they both lived and close to the tennis tournament.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" A waitress stopped at his window-adjacent table with a small notepad and a fountain pen, looking entirely fed up with the whole waiting-on-customers part of her job. Really, the only part of her job. Upon seeing the yellow-with-black-stripes jacket, she brightened. "I mean, Sanada Genichirou-san."

Sanada said, "I'll be a second."

"Oh, okay." The waitress bobbed her head enthusiastically.

Once she left, Sanada released the breath he hadn't known he was holding and pinched the bridge of his nose. Once Houshigawa arrived, he would persuade her to find another place to eat.

Sanada raised his head and gazed out the window. The sky looked like light blue fabric covered by a sheet of white, wispy translucence. A perfectly adequate day for outdoor activities. Sanada saw Houshigawa walking down the street, her hair still way too long and a satchel on her shoulder. She waved when she spotted his face through the window and jogged the rest of the way.

"Hey, sorry." Houshigawa slid into the seat opposite him. "Did you order without me?"

Sanada shook his head. He hadn't even looked at the menu, too horrified by the restaurant itself to further scare himself with the unorthodox food choices no doubt waiting for him when he picked up the menu.

"Great." Houshigawa rubbed her hands and picked up hers.

Sanada said, "You're late."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry."

Sanada waited for an excuse. The waitress came and poured them some store-bought tea. Houshigawa sipped hers while contemplating the menu, but Sanada didn't touch his.

"So," Houshigawa said finally, "how's school?" She sounded like an obligatory mother.

Sanada answered, "What does that matter?" He sounded like an anti-social teen.

"How's life?" Houshigawa said.

"This place is not suitable for serving important meals," Sanada stated.

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to take that up with the manager," Houshigawa replied.

"We are eating someplace else."

"No thanks."

"I wasn't asking."

"I wasn't open to discussion on the matter."

Sanada set his hands on the table. "We are leaving."

Steepling her fingers, Houshigawa leaned forward, dipped her chin, and peered at him expectantly. "I'll make you a deal. We eat here today, and you can choose the place next time."

Immediately, two thoughts struck Sanada. The first was that there would be a "next time." The second was that he wanted one.

"Fine," he said.

Satisfied with the result, Houshigawa sat back against her seat. She scanned him over, head to toe, right to left, and possibly front to back. Then, she opened her mouth, sucked in a breath, paused, and said, "Today's the Prelims, huh?"

Still a little off-balance from the suspense of that statement, Sanada took a moment to reply and hid it with a smoky cough. "Yeah."

"Are you playing Singles Two?"

Sanada's fingers curled into a fist. High school tennis had been one unpleasant surprise after another. The problem wasn't that Sanada had walked onto the tennis courts expecting to be crowned Emperor, or to immediately become the vice-captain beneath Yukimura Seiichi. He hadn't. The problem was Sanada had not expected to be part of a pool of people to choose from and exchange for as regulars. "Yeah." _It sucks._

"Oh." Aella considered this. "Who's Singles One? Yukimura-san?"

"The captain." Sanada had to struggle not to scoff and roll his eyes as he said this. From his observations, Makoto Nobuo seemed like a joke, incapable of leading Rikkai to a victory.

Despite his best efforts, Houshigawa still seemed to sense the disgust in his tone. "I take it, you don't like this guy," she said.

Sanada just waited for her to finish her tea. Then, he shouldered his tennis racquet bag and stood up. "Let's go."

"What?" Houshigawa demanded, hands tightening on the edges of her seat. "I haven't ordered yet. And we made a deal."

He sat down slowly and folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. Order."

Houshigawa smirked at him and began to make a show of taking her sweet time at examining the menu.

Although Sanada would have found this sort of teasing annoying if anyone else had done it, he was okay with this.

~x~

The day of the District Preliminaries arrived without much fanfare. The Friday before, the team practiced a little harder than usual, the school gathered at the fences to help boost morale with their cheers and accolades. "Really, the Prelims are so easy, it wouldn't have mattered even if we skipped today's practice," Makoto had said. Koichi had agreed. This statement was so obvious, disagreeing would have been like disagreeing with gravity and the human instinct to destroy and improve.

The team arrived to hand in the roster fashionably late, though nobody really minded, no matter how much Sanada raved about the negative impression of tardiness and irresponsibility. They signed in and glided onto the tournament grounds, a cloud of black-and-yellow. _(Don't come near us unless you want to be stung.)_ Lining up in front of the other team, anyone would have remarked that the Rikkai boys looked liked conquerors.

Singles Three started.

Jackal stepped onto the court and jerked his opponent around the court for an hour, unintentionally a puppet master. He lost a point to the opponent in his first set. The second set lasted for twenty minutes; Jackal lost two points this time. Before anyone had the time to absorb the match, the referee was announcing, "Singles Three goes to Rikkai Dai's Jackal Kuwahara with a score of 6 – 0, 6 – 0."

The audience on the bleachers roared and stomped their feet, as Jackal made his way off of the court. Head and neck shining with sweat, Jackal gratefully accepted the water and towel Marui offered him. He sat with his head bent and a towel soaking up sweat on his neck.

Doubles Two was starting. "This should be good," the Yukimura said to Sanada and Yanagi. Marui and Niou did not so much have a history as a record for avoiding each other, until one or the other broke it off to pester the other.

They tried out an Australian Formation, and failed when they lost a point that went down the middle. After that, they stuck with a normal formation, with Niou at the baseline and Marui at the net. They were a better pair than the average stranger would have suspected going off of how they behaved off-court. Marui and Niou played without a chink in their armor. Niou controlled his opponents from the baseline, forcing them to feed easy shots, shots that Marui easily crushed from the net.

In the middle of their first set, Jackal had regained his energy enough to stand up. "I'm gonna go for a quick jog," he announced, though nobody was listening over the roar of the crowd and the discordant harmony of how Marui and Niou played. He tucked his hands into his pockets and jogged away from the tennis courts.

He rounded a corner, and another, and swerved in complicated patterns, focusing on the pound of his blood in his head and the steady smack of his feet against pavement. Voices drifted to his ears. "Jackal-kun!" somebody called out. Jackal slowed down and looked to the side. When he saw Nakamura Ayumu and her brother, he stopped completely.

Nakamura Kuroda raised his free hand into the air and waved. The other hand was clutching an off-kilter ice cream cone, already slumping to one side. "Hey, man, what's up?"

Jackal placed his hands on the back of his waist and took deep in-and-out breaths. He felt overheated from the running (though, the fact that Ayumu was here didn't help). "Just jogging," he said.

Kuroda and Ayumu scanned him over. Jackal suddenly felt subconscious about his loud Rikkai uniform. The yellow and black trailing lines down his legs, across his shoulders, around his torso drew eyes everywhere he went.

"Tennis, huh?" Kuroda said, breaking the silence.

"Yep."

Ayumu stepped away from her brother's side. "Hey, d'you wanna come see the other matches with us? Our team is playing."

"Really?" Jackal asked, intrigued. This was Ayumu and she said everything intriguingly. "Which school?"

"Itoguruma."

Itoguruma was a public school in Hiratsuka. When it came to academia, the school was as much of a contender as some of the private schools. However, the school was poorly lacking in athleticism. In tennis, Itoguruma, like most other schools in Kanagawa, was simply not good enough compete against Rikkai.

"I think we're playing you guys this afternoon," Jackal said.

Ayumu's eyebrows narrowed. Jackal's face suddenly felt like a billboard. She asked cheerfully, "So, do you want to come with us?"

Just then, a rousing cheer came from where Rikkai Dai was playing. "Rikkai must always win, Rikkai must always win," the crowd shouted in unison. Jackal, Ayumu, and Kuroda looked back that way, Jackal visibly blushing despite his dark skin. Judging from the noise, Marui and Niou had just won their first set. He said, "Sorry, I should get back."

"Right. Yeah," Ayumu said lightly. "We'll see ya at the gym, right?"

Somehow, she managed to phrase the question like a test. Unsure, Jackal just pulled his lips into a thin line and nodded.

~x~

"Hey, where were you?" Marui asked as Jackal came back from his run. He bumped his shoulder into Jackal's good-naturedly. "You shoulda seen me and Niou crush that other team."

Jackal smiled. "Sorry. I'm back for Singles Two, aren't I?"

Yukimura turned away from Jackal and Marui sitting above him. He patted Sanada's back and said in a jesting tone, "Go get 'em, champ."

Sanada rolled his eyes. "Be serious, Yukimura," he replied gruffly.

"'Be serious, Yukimura,'" Niou mimicked to Yagyuu across from them.

Sanada Genichirou strode onto the court like a king returning to his kingdom and shook his opponent's hand with a grip that terrified and a stare that paralyzed. "Love-all, Sanada Genichirou to serve," the referee called.

Four points passed by the audience and Sanada's opponent between each blink of the eye, setting the tone for how the rest of the match would proceed: quick, concise, and impersonal. Sanada Genichirou didn't play with his food.

After the first game, Yukimura decided to look for Sumiko. Wandering through the tournament grounds, he sometimes stopped and observe other matches, not terribly dedicated to his self-assigned task of seeking out his sister. He only forgot about his goal completely when he saw Renji sitting atop some bleachers.

Striding up to the topmost bleacher, Yukimura sat down beside Renji and leaned over his friend's shoulder to catch a glimpse of what he was writing. He soon gave up, because little-known fact about Yanagi Renji: he had terrible handwriting when he was writing quickly. Yukimura angled his body toward where Renji was looking and folded his face into the same concentrated look as Renji's.

Two first-years were playing doubles against two incredibly tall third-years. They were twins, the younger high school duo, but that wasn't what had caught Renji's eye. It was that, at the moment, they were beating the third-year duo in straight sets, and they were doing it with effortless synchronization. If one approached the net, the other fell back; if one missed a shot, the other would be there like a solid wall; and when they went up to poach, they stepped in complete harmony.

Yukimura tilted his head. "Who are those two?"

"They appeared out of nowhere, playing for Itoguruma. Seiichi, pass me my pen." Renji said this last sentence when his pen flew out of his hand mid-twirl.

Yukimura picked it up and gave an experimental spin, trying to mirror the deft movements of Renji's hands. The pen climbed cumbersomely over his thumb and fell into the valley between his thumb and pointer finger. Not bad for a first try. He handed the pen to Renji and asked the question on his mind:

"Have you seen Sumiko?"

"I believe I saw her walking around with Miura Mitsueru."

Frowning, Yukimura got up and surveyed the tournament grounds below him. He found Renji had picked one of the highest places to watch from. He could see past each boundary if he spun in a full circle. He could see each match occurring, and each excitement-crazed fan. Looking out over the entire tournament, Yukimura suddenly realized how blinkered everyone was. Everyday, people walked around, contemplating their own problems, not even giving a damn about anything else in the world.

And Yukimura, he too was blinkered, blinkered by a net and a ball and a strip of green. He was struck by how _lonely_ tennis was. When he stood on that court, everything boiled down to he against his opponent and the expectations of everyone else on his shoulders.

And this thought _exhilarated_ Yukimura.

But he remembered—

_Not so lonely._

Looking over at Renji, Yukimura thought his friend had always seemed satisfied with tennis, happy even. Could Yukimura have been reading him wrong this whole time? Yukimura narrowed his eyes, trying to read his friend's thoughts. He couldn't.

Yukimura thought back to the first time he had faced Renji on a tennis court: first year of middle school, at the interschool ranking matches, in group three. Renji had begun predicting his shots from the moment the match started; soon enough, Yukimura felt the need to show that he, too, could read his opponent as well as Renji could.

He hadn't been able to do it back then, either.

Sanada, however, had picked up on Renji's mannerisms in their second year.

Yanagi Renji, an enigma, obscured, enshrouded with mystery, and reticent, abstemious Sanada Genichirou had been the first to _know_ him. Not Yukimura Seiichi, with his charisma and interpersonal skills. Yukimura with his obduracy when it came to things he couldn't understand.

Perhaps the problem was Yukimura. Yukimura had epitomized Renji as someone who couldn't possibly be read, so he had stopped trying to understand him, satisfied with a name and an ideal.

And now, Yukimura realized, he didn't know Yanagi Renji at all.

~x~

Niou left to buy a drink from concessions before the tournament ended and it was crowded with tired players. He'd gone before Sanada won his first set, and after Yukimura Seiichi had left in search of his kid sister.

"Surprise me, but not Ponta," Niou said, sliding his wallet out of his pocket.

"Here." The girl manning concessions set a drink in front of him.

It was grape Ponta.

Raising an eyebrow first at the drink, and then at the girl, Niou realized she was Kukaku Naomi, Hiroshi's little girlfriend, the one who debated and lost maps. He examined her expression, disappointed to find this girl and this girl only. The girl Hiroshi had introduced him to after school.

Niou searched for the girl who lived in his apartment building, who had gotten lost and cried after he dropped her off there. The girl who was still lost. That was the little girl he had met drinking in a bar.

This was not that girl.

"I said not Ponta."

"You also said, 'Surprise me.'" Here, she imitated his detached tone, rolling her eyes as she did so.

Niou sighed. He instructed, "Leave the Ponta, but get me a water."

Kukaku Naomi bit her lip sharply, looking like she had another morsel of wit to share. Niou raised his eyebrow at her before looking away to show he wasn't interested. She retrieved a bottle of water from under the concessions stand, slamming it down upon the counter. "Here."

Niou quickly calculated the cost, plus tax, and dropped a handful of yen on the counter. He unscrewed the top off the water bottle and poured a pint down his throat.

Head bowed as she rifled for change in the little pouch, Kukaku muttered sourly, "I spit in that." She flicked two coins at Niou.

"Thank you for your service," Niou said sarcastically. He made his way back to the tournament just in time to see Sanada win the first set in straight games. "Here, Hiroshi. Ponta from your little girlfriend." He tossed the can at Yagyuu.

"She's not my girlfriend. Kukaku-chan's here?" Yagyuu asked quizzically. "Marui-kun, here, have a drink." He slid it across the bleachers to Marui and Jackal.

"Thanks, Yagyuu," Marui crowed. To Jackal, he said, "Finally someone is appreciating how hard I work." He tapped it a few times and opened it. Fizzy liquid bubbled out and splattered on his uniform. Marui squawked, jumping up and flapping his hands.

Niou smirked.

"Yeah, she's working concessions," he said to Yagyuu. "That strange?"

"Only just."

"You're hiding something."

"Only just."

Niou rolled his eyes. Yagyuu wouldn't tell him. He pulled out his phone and idly typed the name _kukaku_ into a search engine. He came up with numerous results, but the most occurring one was about a professor at Tokyo University—"Kukaku Gaoto."

He turned to Yagyuu. "That her dad?"

"I don't see why you would care," Yagyuu replied.

"I don't. But you think something is wrong, and I'm going to find out."

Irritation flashing in his eyes, Yagyuu turned to Niou. "Why the sudden interest in Kukaku-chan's past?" he demanded.

Niou shrugged. He tilted his head. "Anything for your little girlfriend."

~x~

"Will the players shake hands?"

Yasuo remembered the last time he had felt this charged with nervous energy. It had been when he player Marui. This time, failure to beat even one of the regulars manifested in his being, causing his hand to shake like he had overdosed on coffee. He concentrated on steadying his hand by gripping his opponent's hand as hard as he could. His opponent, a meaty boy, took this as a challenge and squeezed back. Their hands turned white under the sun.

"Rough or smooth?" Yanagi asked.

The two players shared a look. They said, "Rough."

Yanagi spun his racquet. It landed on rough. The two boys high-fived. The ref announced who was to serve, but Yasuo was too nervous to pay attention.

"Just remember how we practiced," Yanagi murmured as they got into position. Yasuo would be at the net so Yanagi could control the game. Yasuo wasn't sure how he felt about letting Yanagi be the puppet master; however, he was quite certain about his feelings toward winning.

Yasuo nodded solemnly.

The match started with a weak serve from the meaty boy who shook Yasuo's hand. Yanagi returned it effortlessly, and the two rallied back and forth for fifteen seconds (Yasuo was counting), before the opponent intercepted the tennis ball and volleyed at Yasuo's head. He winked at Yasuo and smiled, like they shared a secret.

"Yuudai-kun!" Yanagi called.

Yasuo started and swung wildly at his volley. The shot flew out, and the stands booed and cheered. Yasuo looked at the bleachers where the team sat. Everyone who was playing touched their foreheads or shook their heads, disappointment palpable in the air.

Yasuo and Yanagi's opponents shared a look. The net player called out, "So this is what Rikkai's made of, huh? I didn't know they showed favoritism. What, d'you have a brother on the team of something? Is that how you got picked?" He was talking to Yasuo.

"Hey! Leave him alone!" a shrill voice called from the bleachers. "Go, Yasuo-kun!"

Yasuo, startled, looked to where the voice had come from. Waving a _Go, Rikkai!_ banner in the air, Ayami beamed at him and jumped up and down.

"Oh, is that your girlfriend? Is she here to cheer you on? Wouldn't want to disappoint her, would you, _Yasuo-kun_." The net player looked pleasantly, sadistically surprised.

The spectators had gone silent.

Cheeks burning at the unwanted attention, Yasuo growled tersely, "Just serve."

"Whoa, all right," the net player mocked, hands held up like a plea of innocence. With one of them, he gestured at his partner. "You heard the hotshot. Serve."

The second serve was fired bit stronger. Yasuo shook himself out and relaxed. He couldn't stop thinking about Ayami watching him from the bleachers. Oddly, instead of feeling happy and bolstered, he could only think about how she would be so disappointed if he sucked.

A rally had commenced between Yanagi and the meaty boy again. Just then, the net player got ahold of the ball. "Get you head in the game, Yuudai!" Koichi roared. Yasuo snapped out of his thoughts, focused on the ball, and slid into a volley.

Rikkai won that point, and the crowd went wild.

"Lucky shot," the net player sneered, brushing it off airily.

Yasuo struggled to ignore them, to shut them out. He looked to the bench. Their team advisor nodded semi-approvingly. Behind him, Makoto wore a sly smile on his face. Yasuo felt like he knew something about the outcome of the match that he and Yanagi didn't. And he wouldn't be smiling if they were going to lose, so that meant Rikkai would win Doubles One.

Confidence bolstered by his captain's faith, Yasuo put Ayami and his previous abasement out of his mind and concentrated on getting the ball across the net, not dragging Yanagi down, and crushing the net player.

Before he knew it: "Rikkai's Yanagi-Yuudai pair wins 6 – 0, 6 – 0!"

"You did good, Yuudai-kun," Yanagi told Yasuo as they were heading off of the court.

Yasuo beamed. He felt happy.

~x~

"Let's have a good match," Makoto said.

"Right," the opponent responded tersely. Makoto had not bothered to learn or remember his name, and he did not bother to listen when the referee announced it as the match started. His gaze flickered to the analog clock, taking Makoto a few seconds to read it before he determined it was already close to noon. Makoto's stomach rumbled, aware that it was supposed to be hungry now. "Let's make this match quick, shall we," Makoto called across the net.

"Just serve already," the opponent yelled.

Makoto smiled with satisfaction. "That's the spirit, Aihara Daiichi-san." He was glad he had been able to remember the name of the school Rikkai was battling.

He served lightly and the opponent managed a return even though it was to his weak side. Makoto ran for the opponent's wild return, just barely inside the single's court. He shot the ball to the opposite of where the other boy was standing, but despite that, the opponent still managed to return the shot. As Makoto ran for another wild shot, the adrenaline began to pump through his system, and Makoto forgot about his growling stomach. He just did what he did best: Attack.

The rest of the set consisted of short rallies, barely-in shots, and running around the court like circus monkey on Makoto's opponent's part. Completely in his element, Makoto hit each shot softly (the opponent's arm was soon shaking), slowly (the other boy's legs were soaked in sweat), and predictably (a haunted look soon crept into the other boy's eyes).

The first set ended quickly. The other boy stumbled off of the court while Makoto strode off with a poised smile on his lips. He sipped water from his water bottle as he watched the opponent out of the corner of his eyes.

Although his knees trembled and his elbow couldn't hold his tennis racquet upright without wobbling, the other boy looked fine to the normal person. However, Makoto's eyes saw gashes down each bulging muscle, throbs and protests around the joints, hopelessness on the opponent's face. Makoto's eyes saw victory in this agony.

"Will the players please come onto the court?" the referee called.

Makoto stood up and caught the other boy's eyes. By some unspoken message, they met at the net again and shook hands. Makoto looked into those dead, hopelessness eyes and offered relief.

"You can back out now. I won't blame you."

Numbly, the boy shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"No…—but… no." Head hanging, the boy released Makoto's hand and trudged back to the baseline.

Makoto shrugged. "All right, Aihara Daiichi-san, your choice." He stalked back to the baseline and got into receiving position. However, a few moments passed, and then twice that many moments. Soon, whispers drifted from the spectators.

"Sir, please serve," the referee called.

Makoto's opponent stood still for a moment. He finally tilted his head up to the referee and said in a monotone, "I forfeit this match."

The crowd went silent. And then, screams and cheers filled the grounds.

Makoto looked at his team with a smile on his face. Their faces cupped fear in lean cheeks. Makoto, however, didn't care.

~x~

"Hey, Houshigawa, what's up?"

Aella turned away from her conversation with Hanako at the familiar voices. Walking up to her, Marui and Jackal wore affable smiles, shamelessly unaffected by the stares they were attracting. "Hey, guys," she said.

"What're you doing here, Houshigawa?" Jackal asked.

Aella shrugged. "Eh. Just supporting my team."

"And by that, I assume you mean Rikkai," Marui interrupted.

Aella laughed, way too loudly as happiness overflowed inside of her. She shared a look with Hanako, who seemed oddly affected by Jackal and Marui's presence. "We were actually gonna grab a bite after this. Do you guys want to come?"

Jackal and Marui shared a look, too. This look was strangely troubled, riddled with secrets and worries. Mostly, Marui stole glances at Hanako and Jackal stole glances at Aella. Finally, they turned and said, "Sure."

Aella felt like she had missed something glaringly obvious. She twined a long strand of hair around her finger, resisting the urge to bite it. "Great," she burst out.

They four of them chatted as they walked past the teams in huddles outside the tournament campus. They passed by the high school Rikkai team. Aella's gaze caught on Niou's unstudied stance first, and she had half a mind to call out and ask if he wanted to come along. But he turned as she was opening her mouth and offered her a secretive smirk, and she decided against it. Then, she made eye contact with Sanada. He watched with a stoic expression as they walked by, and then turned into Yukimura and Renji's conversation. Noticing this, Yanagi and Yukimura dipped their heads to acknowledge her as she walked by.

And that was how Aella knew she hadn't been forgotten.

As Aella, Hanako, Marui, and Jackal filed into a nearby bakery, the smell of pastries and fresh-from-the-oven food drifted to their noses. Sliding into an exclusive booth near a corner, Hanako was thrown forcefully against Aella and Marui against Jackal. Aella did not miss the looks exchanged while this happened.

"I'm going to use the bathroom," she said.

Quickly, Hanako added, "Me too."

They walked away as Marui struck up a joke about how girls always went to the bathroom together. As soon as they round the corner into the bathroom, Hanako hissed at Aella, "What the hell?"

Aella turned away from the stall she'd been about to enter. She looked under each one for shoes, making sure there were no eavesdroppers, before she replied, "What?"

"Why did you invite them?"

"I thought I could."

Hanako flung her hands out. "Well, you can't." She was struggling not to sound choked up.

"Why?" Aella demanded. "You've been acting really weird since they got here. Is there something I missed?"

"Me and Marui broke up," Hanako half-screamed.

Aella paused. Softly, she wondered, "What?"

"Didn't I tell you?" Hanako said, a perplexed expression sneaking onto her face.

Aella shook her head numbly. She leaned against the bathroom door as Hanako explained everything to her. However, as the story grew predictable, Aella's head began to drift away. It retreated into her mind, until a thought was reached:

_Have I really missed this much?_

Aella was afraid so.

~x~

Yukimura arrived at the poetry slam at Naoko's church about five minutes before the actual poetry began. He had been trying to avoid this awkward standing-around-and-doing-nothing when he waited ten minutes before heading out the door so he could be a little late. But the universe just didn't seem to have that in mind for him today.

"Hey, nice to see you, Yukimura-kun," Naoko greeted him at the door. She was wearing a casual T-shirt and a pleated skirt that stopped right above her knees. This made Yukimura self-conscious about his choice of attire for tonight. Since the flyer hadn't told him the level of formality at this event, he had settled with dress pants and a white button-down shirt. He felt overdressed compared to her. Naoko collected the two-dollar entry fee. "Go on right in. We're just about to start."

Yukimura entered into the dimly lit cathedral. Now, he felt really overdressed as he gazed upon the T-shirts and jeans worn by these teenagers. He lingered close to the wall as he waited for the poetry slam to start.

"Hey, it's you," a girl said. "Yukimura Seiichi."

Yukimura nodded his head in acknowledgment. He half expected the girl to turn to her friend and tell her, but she merely shrugged and returned to her conversation.

Suddenly, the church doors closed, drowning the room in darkness. A spotlight opened above the stage, and a large man strode onto the stage. "Would everyone please find a seat?"

Yukimura looked around for a suitable place to sit. He saw Naoko gesturing at him from a place beside her friends and almost began to head towards them but thought better of it. He shook his head apologetically and sat in a seat at the very back of the church.

"Right, right. That's good. Now, before we begin this poetry slam, let's bow our hands and pray," the man, who Yukimura concluded was the pastor, said next.

There was a collective shuffle from the bodies around Yukimura. He felt like a poseur as he tried to mimic the pose of the girl and boy next to him. He ducked his head but kept his eyes open as the pastor thanked God and praised him and said "Amen" at the end.

"Now, let's start our poetry slam," declared the pastor. "Can I have a volunteer?"

Hands shot up around Yukimura. The pastor pointed randomly into the group and a fragile boy in a wheelchair rolled onto the stage. The boy was carrying a yellow legal pad in his lap. Holding the mike in his trembling hands, he cleared his throat and said, "Hello, hello? Testing, testing, one, two, three."

The crowd laughed.

Then, the boy grew somber. "This poem is something I wrote when I lost the use of my legs. I've just now become brave enough to share this, because the Lord has lent me his strength. I hope you guys enjoy it."

And then, he started reading from his legal pad. The words, although choppily arranged, rang in Yukimura with poignancy. He realized he could relate. He too had lost the use of his only difference was he had regained them. And for the first time, Yukimura realized just how grateful he should be.

And then, the boy was done with his poem and everyone was snapping quietly. Yukimura snapped along. He turned his head and found Naoko's eyes in the crowd. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

He regretted ever considering not coming.

* * *

><p>AN: Not actually sure if Ponta is fizzy, but let's pretend, shall we.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Prince of Tennis _or the lyrics at the top from _Team_ by Lorde.


End file.
